Montana De Oro State Park: Road Trips from Los Angeles

Morro Bay at a distance

Camping in California: Montana De Oro State Park

By Armando Ortiz

Watching the sun go down.

I drove through the area where this campsite is located a few years ago. It was past midnight and I was coming from Nor. Cal., the sky was onyx, and the moon’s light reflected on the coastal waters, like an old Mayan carving made of obsidian. At times I could see the white of the ocean water that was crashing onto the coastal crags. The tree groves seemed to just grow wild along the side of the road. This time around I came here to camp and to do some hiking.

Montana de Oro State Park is a very beautiful park that has lots to offer to any visitor. This park is located along the coast of Los Osos, which is about ten to fifteen miles west of San Luis Obispo. Along the way to the park one can find convenient stores and grocery stores where you can stock up on goods. The park gets heavily visited by day hikers, college students and people that are into outdoor sports.

My camp at Montana De Oro

I camped on the Environmental Site 1. Finding parking lot where I had to leave my car was not difficult, but the spot where I’d set up my tent was initially tough to find, but eventually I did. Initially I was a bit unsure of the location where I’d be staying for the night. My site was a quarter of a mile away from my car, and I seemed to be unprepared for a hike. After setting camp, and relaxing I discovered that there was a trail to hike right next to my location. In addition, the coastal sand bluffs were a few minutes away walking. I’d never been or seen such a place. The sand bluffs were new to me. I’d never been to coastal dunes, which make for some majestic photos.

Wild buck at a distance

As I climbed a dune I saw a wild buck. I tried getting closer, but still keeping a fairly good distance from it and took some photos of the wild deer. After having a light snack, and seeing the sun set, I began making my way back hiking around some more and once the sky began to darken returned to camp.During the night coyote visited me, it was outside the tent, all I could see what the shadow that its body created after I turned on the lamp. The rustling eucalyptus trees had woken me up as the midnight wind blew. Nights speckled with shinny pearls and owls watched my every move. Throughout the night coastal waves said, everything would be alright.

Morning at Montana De Oro State Park

In the morning I had instant oatmeal with a packet of trail mix. The tweet of fly catcher families greeted my morning walk.  As I headed towards to my car I saw butterflies float bye. They seemed to be following the northeastern sun. They seemed to be fluttering their wings, like black eyelashes on mocha skin. They moved gently, as if following the push of the breaking wind.

While I hiked the cliffs, a Condor glided bye and followed the edge of sand cliffs. I couldn’t help to imagine an aged cuirass protecting a soldier from an old armada galleon setting foot on the coast. Climbing these sand dunes for god and glory and finding maidens sitting, watching the sun go down. The smell of wild sage and sweet blossoms mixing with the desperate sweat of danger and opportunity, for a moment a flash crossed my mind.

Leo Carrillo State Park: Road Trips from Los Angeles

The sun sets at Leo Carrillo beach.

Camping in California: Leo Carrillo State Park

 By Armando Ortiz

Camp site 59, at Leo Carrillo State Park.

Its Thanksgiving break, the weather is cooler, and during this time Angelinos tend stay indoors. So I decided to see if there were any campsites available. I logged on to the California state parks website and found site 59, which was available for the night.

            Leo Carrillo State Park is at the edge of Malibu, so it took about an hour to get to the park when coming from Los Angeles. Right before arriving I stopped by the Pavilions up the road and bought lunch and dinner. I arrived at the park, checked in and went to my spot. Lots of squirrels scattered as I got out of my car, and scanned the area. I sat on the wooden bench and ate my lunch. Then I set up my camp, and went for a walk. The sites to the left and right of me were empty though online it appeared that they’d been reserved.

Leo Carrillo tide-pools.

            The state park is filled with old California oaks, making the walk to the beach a pleasant one, which took about 10 minutes. The sun was setting, and rocks jutted out of the beach creating a large area of tide pools. A few minutes later I headed north, trudging through the sand, and sat on top of a cliff and saw the sun set.

            At night the neighbors across from my camp were loud; a lady’s laugh sounded like a scandalous parrot, and didn’t stop talking till around 11pm. People shatter doesn’t compare to the sound of cars speeding up the road that borders the park. Mullholland Highway is next to the park.

            Overall, this is a nice place to visit and camp. It seems more family oriented than other campsites, since there are tide-pools and beaches, being very kid friendly. To wrap things up, I highly recommended for families and for a nice romantic outing with that special someone. I imagine that in the summer nights are long and the park is always filled to the brim.

California oak at Leo Carrillo State Park.

Latin Quarter, Paris

Norte-Dame de Paris and the Seine River.

Latin Quarter, Paris

By Armando Ortiz

St. Michel station area.

Evenings in Paris are an extension of summer afternoons, there is still plenty of sunlight even at ten o’clock in the evening. So when I arrived in Paris at around 6pm there was time to go to my room, wait for the host that showed up about an hour late. They offered me a sampling of French cheese, and was still able to get on the subway and take a 30 minute ride to the St. Michel station, which left me at the edge of the Latin Quarter and a few feet away from Norte-Dame Cathedral.

First meal spot.

I recall stepping out of the station at around 9pm and seeing the old church. It was lit up with florescent bulbs shooting light upwards. It looked serene. I walked towards the structure, and to my right was the Shakespeare and Company book store, where Woody Allen had appeared on one of his latest films. Numerous tourist roamed the church square. Norte-Dame de Paris was built over a two hundred year span, and completed in 1345, though additions and updates have been made since its beginning as a holy shrine. I came to church area and saw the statue of Charlemagne, King of the Franks and the Holy Roman Empire. The barbarian king had converted to Christianity and adopted old Roman ways. Napoleon Bonaparte had been crowned King of France in that Medieval Hall. I sat on the concrete benches, and saw other foreign tourists and young locals pass bye. I also watched the local grey rats run across the walkway and sprint by the edges of sacred sanctuary, roaming its perimeter collecting left over food or loose paper to insulate their nests.

After a while I decided to walk around the paved alleys of the Latin Quarter. I leisurely started towards the bustling area, looking at all the different restaurants and the food being sold. That first night was exciting to say nonetheless. My first meal- a crepe filled with glazed pieces of chicken, mushrooms, and cheese was a good introduction to the local tourist diet. The cheese must have been good because it was strong and gooey, though coming from the states it might have been too much. In the states the strongest I have had has been sharp cheddar. The place was narrow and could seat ten people at most. I had the feeling of being in an old wooden ship, and was docking in Paris.

Pantheon.

For the next ten days that I’d be in Paris, St. Michel would be my destination, to take the red bus, to walk to other historic structures like the Orsay, to eat, to people watch, and look at beautiful women walk bye. But one of my more memorable treks after emerging from the St. Michel station was on my second to last day, and walking up the hill to check out the Pantheon on my. The subway stop is at the foot of the hill and along the edge of the Seine River. From the station its one long hike up next to paved roads and buildings belonging to the Soborne University cover the rest of the land that greet you like a stoic crowd silently paying respects to you. When I got to the mausoleum I was not allowed to enter. The bottle of wine that I had just purchased was not allowed into the premises since it a glass container. So the time that I had spent resting on one of the giant benches next to the converted church, opening the glass container and taking sips, turned out to be a bad idea. Once I realized that I could put the wine inside my plastic bottle the building containing the remains of famous people like Rousseau and Voltaire, was closed.

I looked at my map determined to do something and optimistic of the day’s unfolding. I decided to visit some historic places of the English literary world. James Joyce, Hemingway and Orwell had lived just a few meters away from the Pantheon. I headed there and wondered- how life there could have been in the early 20^th century. I found their flats, which looked nondescript, but with plaques posted on the outside walls giving some quick info on their former occupants. I decided to walk further up while I stared and photographed the Hemingway apartment.  Soon, I saw people and lots of movement at the top of the hill, and as I got there noticed folks eating along the edges of street, the restaurants were full, and the patrons seemed more interested in relaxing than being inside. A lot of people looked like movie stars, writers, just a bit healthier and more alive with a definite hop to their step and ha to their laughter and completely comfortable with themselves. Children and adolescents ate ice cream and families rested on the shaded area at the center of the intersection. The leaves of the tree were light green and delicately let the cool afternoon air pass through like nets that let the water be forever free.

Evening meal by the river.

So after reaching the top and walking down the other side I was intrigued, this was the Latin Quarter and on my map it showed where Orwell worked as a dishwasher. I kept wandering through this labyrinth of segmented realities, where one way led you to another direction, showing you ways through Paris’ ventricles, arteries and veins- I was just checking stuff out. The number of bistros really surprised me because I’d never been to such a place. Being that I was on top of a hill the clouds looked like dough and the sky a rich indigo. I was definitively going to be spending my lunch money here. I ended up having Iranian food which had the tastiest kabobs I had had in a while, the last time being at a Jewish Iranian wedding. 

After finishing lunch, I walked around some more till I found a really nice bakery and bought a day old baguette at half price. Next, I wandered into a convenient store where I bought some Spanish olives and sausages. Know I was set for the coming hours and would be able to continue my walk about. Later, as I sat by the river, I couldn’t help to think of how when a door closes so many other possibilities open up, maybe my situation back in Los Angeles would improve and the outlook on love looked better than when I had boarded the airplane to France. I was in the same area the next day and had a classic French dish, and visited Voltaire’s resting place, paying my respects. I wandered around the same streets that captivated me the previous day, for one last time.

Voltaire.

Pieces of Light

Pieces of Light

By Armando Ortiz

The world is a jet stream that takes him to world divine,

and if he conducts with respect he won’t be condemning himself to die,

but if passing to the next life a condemned man,

then let that light hit like a bullet, as the first ringing of a bullseye.

Walk and talk with truth and deep valleys with flowery meadows

will not only be recorded from his eye,

but that warm texture of soft hands that make ephemeral mudra signs

will guide the way, to the other side of the divine

that texture of time will be with him till eternity

and all that’s left is but a nothing dark night.

Montemartre, Paris

Sacre Coeur

Montemartre, Paris

by Armando Ortiz

Mars

            I’d gone to visit my friend, Scott, and sat on the couch, talking about personal matters –former lover contacting me, my current emotional state, and my overall state in light of many other concerns. Then I asked what he had been doing. He’d been watching some YouTube videos on the breakdown of Greek gods. I saw listed there before me, Mars meaning Ares, God of War. Then it hit me like a flash. I am an Aries, and was born in March. I’d just returned from a trip to Paris, and there visited Sacre Couer in Montemartre, where the church is located. Montemartre means the mountain of Mars. I had returned to that spot a second time before leaving the city the next day, to see the sunset. I’d read about its history in passing but never really made the connection. That last day though, I saw the clouds gently move and separate, like cotton candy being stretched with one’s fingers. The sky slowly turned champagne, rose and as the sun slowly sunk became a dark zinfandel.

Aries

            I told Scott that I was born in March, under the Aries sign. To make things more provocative I also mentioned to him that the constellation next to Aries was Persus, which was an eerie coincidence that my first name was Percy. I was a bit surprised to realize that Montmartre was my mountain. I was mostly taken by Sacre Coeur’s white washed dome and pillars. It was one of the newer basilicas, one a hundred years old, but being that it was on top of a mount, it gives great views of Paris. You can also see the imposing church from the Eifel Tower and other parts of Paris, so if it wasn’t the tower it was the church on mount mars that oriented me and in many ways reminded me that I was in Paris.

Eiffel Tower at a distance

            On my first visit to the church I’d wandered its streets and taken a multiplicity of photographs on my phone. I saw foreigners with “selfie sticks” trying haphazardly to take pictures of themselves. What has happened with asking a stranger for a photo? Not that I went out of my way to offer help. Many faces from different places around the world sat on the steps and just gazed out looking at the city, talking, laughing, and contemplating amongst friend, with an occasional sip of their beer or wine. Some people even had picnics happening in the grassy area of the stairs that lead down to Place Saint-Pierre. All was well on top of mount Mars, and for a person born in March under the Aries sign, things couldn’t have been better.

Sacre Coeur at a distance.

Roberto Bolano's Woes of a True Policeman: Book Review

Woes of a True Policeman: Book Review

By Armando Ortiz

In Woes of a True Policeman, Roberto Bolano seems to weave a narrative that appears to be developing ideas for his magnum opus 2666. Despite this connection, the novel stands independently, centering on new characters like- Padilla. As the lives of Professor Amalfitano, Rosa Amalfitano, Archimboldi, Pancho Monje and Padilla intersect, Bolano delves into the intricate complexities of human relationships, the quest for artistic and human fulfillment, and the enthralling mystery of self-discovery.

Professor Amalfitano’s journey epitomizes the challenges of grappling with identity and political turbulence. As a leftist intellectual, he traverses various Latin American universities, forced to make difficult compromises while embracing his daughter Rosa’s budding independence. Her discovery of his sexuality disrupts their lives, highlighting the contrast between societal expectations and the pursuit of personal truth.

Rosa’s evolution into adulthood echoes her father’s struggles, marked by her relationship with Jordi Carrera and her subsequent relocation to Santa Teresa. As Rosa navigates the streets, we witness her transformation, mirroring the essence of the city itself- constantly flowing, evolving and embracing new identities.

Intriguingly elusive, Archimboldi, the reclusive and revered writer, embodies the allure of literary artistry. Bolano paints a picture of his literary success, yet paradoxically keeps his personal life shrouded in mystery. Archimboldi’s life somehow mirrors the ethereal nature of creativity, where the artist’s true life and essence remains enigmatic, even amidst critical acclaim.

Pancho Monje’s resilience, borne out of adversity, presents a stark contrast to the enigmatic artists. Raised amidst strong women, Pancho’s path into the police force is one of determination and bravery. His infatuation with Rosa adds a foreboding touch to the complexities explored within the novel.

Central to the tale is the writer Padilla, whose presence exudes both the allure and mystery. Amalfitano’s encouragement of Padilla’s writing becomes a poetic dance of letters, underscoring the profound connection between mentor and artist. Padilla’s nocturnal wanderings and encounters with outcasts add layers of intrigue and a hint of darkness to the narrative.

As Bolano weaves the lives of these independent yet interdependent characters, Woes of a True Policeman emerges as a tapestry of self-discovery, intellectual pursuit, and the fragility of human desire. The novel seemingly stands as an extension of 2666, where characters intertwine in Bolano’s world, facing risks and discovering the heartbeats of the cities they call home.

Through the journey of these characters, Bolano explores the universal quest for understanding and rediscovery. Whether it is Professor Amalfitano embracing his true self, Rosa navigating her new world, or Padilla wandering the nocturnal streets, each character embarks on an emotional and social journey that becomes the essence of their existence.

In short, Woes of a True Policeman stands as an independent testament to Bolano’s storytelling mastery, enriched by its interconnectedness to 2666. Within its pages, we witness the human spirit traversing the labyrinth of emotions and societal expectations, captivating us with the rawness and vulnerability of self-discovery. As the characters confront their chimera, it is through their triumphs and tribulations that they transcend mere literary figures, resonating as poignant reflections of our own human complexities.

Sinchon, Seoul: Figaro

Figaro

By Armando Ortiz

            I listen to the piano keys, the slow tempo of Tchaikovsky emerges from the speakers, and for a moment the wind plays its passing sound of placid branches slightly swaying. I recall Figaro, a clown. She sold balloon sculptures to people in Sinchon- the area to go “play” if you we’re in your twenties and living in Seoul. She once told me that she had studied piano in college and had hoped to become a pianist. She never explained how she became a clown, instead gave me evasive answers or silent pauses. I bumped into her multiple times, and in all those breaks we talked English, my Korean was still basic. She was like a cat that has no owner, and freely visits you at night, crouching and observing for an hour or so. Perhaps once in a while will take some of your left overs that one places on a plate, but quickly leaves as you move your arm to try to make contact with your palm, only the tips of two fingers brush against a few soft hairs.

One day, an American decided to make a pass on her, and for unknown reasons, maybe the placement of the stars and universe, I happened to be passing bye with some of my friends. I saw the happy red face that was painted as she ran towards my way with scowl. She grabbed the arm and pulled my body to where the potential opponent was. For a part of a quickly passing second, I saw the reflection of her desperation on the Plexiglas of the convenient store. As I was being pulled she was telling me how he had disrespected her. We ended up arguing for a bit, with brief posturing but he eventually left with his pals disappearing into the passing crowds of people.

I recall another time when I was coming back from the Ewha subway station which is on the hill. It was around half past three in the afternoon, and the weather was pleasant. The leaves on the maple trees that lined the streets were a bright green, not yet fully reaching their late summer darkness. It must have been early in the summer, prior to when the World Cup swooped on to the country. The metro was located midway up a hill, like it is almost everywhere you go in Seoul. She was placidly walking up the slope. Her steps were steady as she moved towards my direction. From afar she looked like Renoir’s The Clown, but with livelier pastels. Approaching, she appeared to be a multi-colored penguin, and with each step placed to the ground looked as if her polished red over-sized boots slapped the ground. We briefly talked. Korea being a mostly homogeneous nation has such a wide ranging conservative standard that there is a tendency to dress conservatively in public, though the young people are a bit more casual in their attire. She was an odd one out- no stylish pumps or purse to carry.

She was not the only odd person in that area, but she certainly was no gutter-punk like the ones you found in Heundae or even a troubled youth that hung out near the play area of Sinchon. She was a clown, with big paddle shoes, like the burger clown back home, and she worked alone. The multicolored clown suit made her look twice her width. She was petite, a clown none the less, and if you were drunk enough she looked like a beach ball from afar.

The only exposed areas were her hands, which I had quickly noticed. She had small palms, but perfect for her size. Her nails were not manicured, but lotion kept them soft. They were swarthy but not as dark as my own, and they still looked young, maybe she was in her mid to late 30s- about ten years older than me.

When she found out that I’d be returning to the states she told me to go to a small shop located near the main avenue that partitioned Sinchon and Heudae.

“Go down that street and there will be store with a green sign, go in and tell them that Figaro sent you.” Maybe what she said was, “come with me to this small shop I want to give you something.”

She gave me a wallet, and inside was a photo of us standing together. Now, I wonder where that wallet is and under what boxes, and piles of papers that photo could be. Figaro, a piano player who sold balloons, that was her name, and before I left Korea, gave me a present.

What might she be doing? Does she still go around making pouncing dogs or splendid flowers out of balloons? Does she talk to the other foreigners that walk down the alleys perusing shops in search of a good maekju spot or a cheap dak-galbi place? 

Interstellar Trail: Short Piece

Interstellar Trail

By Armando Ortiz

Buddhist teaching,

word and symbol,

Vajra standing

on paper still.

Diamond sutra

hemp on plaster,

hand moving faster

laying a path of ink.

Holy priest floating

riding on tiger clouds,

dismembering ego

promising redemption.

Horse of the Great Plateau

rumbling into war

chariot of fire

demolishing walls.

Flying creature

found in white clouds

on frozen blue sky

protects the spirit trail.

Ancient pilgrim

walking through desert

passing through gorges

finding knowledge in the sacred.

Old Tibetan libraries

under constant repair

after years of cultural warfare

on silent mountain valleys.

Ring the bell

of present chant,

the setting sun

washed in corral dye.

Sketched masterpieces

capture the moment

the violet sky turns onyx

revealing the source of clamor.

Palace of refuge

with dining hall

where longing gets quenched

in a banquet under Guanyin’s eye.

Master’s imagination

sketched on paper

for blind men to follow

the pattern of the shining

interstellar ember.

Sutras kept alive

on blueprint scrolls,

four sided walls repeating

the divine cycle that’s law.

Raymond Chandler's Farewell, My Lovely: Book Review

Raymond Chandler’s Farewell, My Lovely: Review and Reflection

By Armando Ortiz

Raymond Chandler’s Farewell, My Lovely is a quick reading novel that takes place in the late-1930's, and begins along Central Avenue in Los Angeles. There the private detective Philip Marlowe finds himself in front Florian’s, a hotel that’s lost its glitter and now is mostly a seedy gambling den. For one reason or another, he is in search of a missing person when he is swept up by a chance encounter with a man who is also looking for someone. This part of Los Angeles is now considered the historical Jazz corridor of the city, which back in the day, between the 1930’s through the 1950’s, was a place where African Americans were allowed to own businesses. Marlowe becomes a quasi-accomplice to a murder that happens in the building. The crime is eventually solved though to get through to the end one goes through a roller coaster ride of intrigue, action, racism, mystery and emotions. Chandler manages to capture Marlowe’s ebb and flow as a heavy drinker, and also gives the reader a glimpse into a city that was less populated, where its streets and traffic were barely beginning to have congestion. More important to the landscape, Marlowe swims in the midnight waters of the deep underground where gigolos, con-artists, gamblers, gangsters, former convicts and corrupt officials mingle in hidden dens, within canyon mansions or boats that are anchored a few miles from the coast.

Marlowe’s office is located in Hollywood, but he is constantly zipping to the beach, police stations around downtown L.A., and driving up desolate canyons that today are riddled with multi-million dollar mansions.  He describes places, like Central Ave where the majority are Hispanic, but that back then was a place where African-Americans made up the majority, but this was mainly due to laws that segregated them to a specific area of this urban oasis. Through his literary lens, Chandler gives the reader a context to the different waves of residents that the city has encountered throughout the years since its establishment, while at the same time showing us a glimpse of how crime was treated back in those days. According to the novel, if a white man killed a black man it would only be considered a misdemeanor, which in a very interesting way sheds light into the manner the media sees crime in Los Angeles.

Some of his descriptions are flawless. The beach which is at the edge of Bay City (Santa Monica, CA) is described in a very beautiful manner, making it at once the delicate bracelet of a Hollywood starlet, as seen from a boat that floats in the ocean from a mile away, but also as a place where the smells of tar intertwine with the coastal breeze. He makes you stand at the top of a hill, maybe somewhere along a ridge in Temescal Canyon allowing you to see what he saw. The once desolate canyons are now secluded enclaves for the rich with foreign people that continue to serve the residents there and make the daily commute from the forgotten pockets of L.A. that never make the evening news. In recent times it has been in the canyons of Los Angeles where dismembered body parts have been found, most recently in 2012.

Central Ave today.

The apartment buildings and its front gardens are similar to the ones I saw while growing up in Los Angeles and continue to see in some of the older areas that have yet to be touched by the bulldozers or replaced by mega-luxury apartments that are completely enclosed and exclusive. Art-deco structures built with walls that could hide a bed with a slight lift from one end, and iceboxes that were built into the wall of a kitchen, though no longer functioning makes one wonder what could be found in the more modern structures of today. Places like Central Ave that were slowly going through a transformation is where you now find people that are mostly of Hispanic heritage, walking along its much more rundown side streets and who drive up and down the avenue that’s lined with small ranch markets, discount stores, church congregations, shamans, tattoo parlors, seedy beauty salons and mechanic shops. African Americans, now are an old remnant of the past, having spread out to different parts of the city, just like the white folk that peppered those areas when Chandler was alive.  

Santa Monica.

Sage is a natural feature that is prominent in the story as it engulfs Marlowe when he visits the surrounding hillsides of the city. You know you are entering or have arrived at a more solitary place because the artificial lights and neon signs disappear, the sky becomes particularly darker, and again, the smell of sage hovers and blankets the uninhabited areas of future suburbs. The sounds and smells of the ocean also become accentuated by the more desolate areas of Bay City, making the reader appreciate what once was but that which continues to endure though maybe now you have to drive a bit father to encounter what he saw, like the city’s long arid coastline, and canyons that in spring give birth to many types of wildflowers, though more sparsely now than before.

Chandler left behind a literary gem that future travelers, residents and readers of Los Angeles will one day find themselves experiencing as he too explored the city and retold those meanderings through Marlowe’s narration. Reading his novel is like reading a series of vignettes that keep getting your attention, hooking you with his entrancing character descriptions and unique blend of metaphors and word play. His paragraphs seem to be complete scenes that say everything that must be told, but leave enough to have you reading more.  It lets you uncover facets of LA that you might not have been aware of by peeling away at some of the things that sometimes we ignore, like the fine mud pellets that are created by late-summer morning drizzle or like the humming birds that feed off of ruby bottlebrushes. It’s a good read and well worth the time for anyone wanting to read some good literature, but also for anyone that wants to be transported back to a time when the city was just beginning to become a major urban center.