February. Driving back to Canada from California (solo)…
The room is cozy with birch-panelled walls, roughly made wood furniture and three single beds (one in the loft) with a fluffy comforter and an extra sheet set on the bed.
“How thoughtful,” I muse.
There’s no TV and no telephone and no Wi-Fi (!), but there are a lot of dark corners for spiders to hide in. Fortunately, upon further inspection, I see no evidence of any creepers. The truth is I was too shy as a kid to go to summer camp. This is what I imagine it might have been like. But I’m an adult—and this isn’t summer camp. And I’m not shy anymore (ish), so let’s see what this place has to offer …
Esalen Institute. A holistic retreat on the California coast, in Big Sur no less, celebrating fifty years of zenning people out (or is it in?). A friend recommended it, and it’s on my route home from ‘wintering in California,’ so I decide to stop in. The unassuming wood sign reads, “By Reservation Only.” I don’t have one. I figure I’ll check anyway. It’s dark, and maybe they’ll feel sorry for me.
They do! Though it is mentioned they “usually only allow guests with reservations and who are attending a workshop …” (I missed all the workshops start dates) “… though we do accept guests who are ‘friends of Esalen’” (read: donation based).
She makes an exception, which I’m entirely grateful for—though I may be sharing a room with someone unknown, “Female only, of course.” But since it’s getting late, and I’m road-trip tired, and meals are included “in the main Lodge”—yes, I’m a happy camper, err, lodger!
I take a small travel bag up to the room while wondering if someone will break into my VW Golf and steal my shoes (I’ve just spent 6 months in a sketchy area at the outskirts of Venice Beach) and, even though ‘these kind of people’ would never do such a thing, I have one of my bouts of paranoia anyway.
I digress.
It’s dark—there are no exterior lights so I bumble around with my handy iPhone flashlight App because it’s too early to go to sleep, and I’m curious about the main lodge—plus did I mention no Wi-Fi in the rooms! Wi-Fi available at the main lodge during (vegetarian) non-meal hours only. (Did I mention I’m now a vegetarian, mostly vegan? No idea how long this will last.)
I’m too late by just minutes and apparently they’re Zen punctual. I enter the rustic communal foodery to a congregation of the Birkenstock clad. Eee gad, I’m not hippy at all, not even half, not even close! This holistic holy place is full of whole hog hippies (minus the ham.) It’s a hippy hierarchy of hippy chicks and hippy cliques, and I’m still a misfit. I’m wearing candy apple red nail polish. Shelac! And mascara! Knitted Uggs only qualify if wearing a matching knitted cap (self-made or local-made, bought at a market from an artist-type.)
And … I’m back in the summer camp nightmare I never actually attended. My self-limiting thought of the day, “I don’t fit in! They knoooooow!” Now I’m in panic and paranoia.
I leave the lodge.
I wander the grounds feeling commercial and cheap even though I am wearing this crappy natural deodorant that doesn’t work (why do I keep buying this stuff?).
From what I can glean from the flashlight and sliver of moonlight, the property is gorgeous, pristine, pure. The ocean: thunderous. I meander across the grass to the feebly fenced cliff hoping I don’t step in dog shit. No dogs allowed but refer back to paranoia. The sea suffocates my vanity, and I take a deep breath—sucking it all in while placing my red-tipped fingers over my heart dramatically (it’s dark, no one can see!).
After a while, I sneak back to the lodge and hide just outside by a shrub all ninja style, waiting for the intermittent internet connection to boot me back to the ‘real’ world. Hey, I need to let people know I’m safe.
It’s not working, so I move in closer and sit on a bench, daring onlookers to comment on my electronics addiction.
“My family doesn’t know where I am,” I say, as though I should care that these knit-cap-wearers might be judging me and immediately chastise myself for ‘shoulding’ on myself.
What I really want to say is, “What makes you so superior?” and “Shave that thing for God’s sake. Or at least trim it so I can read the smart-ass remark on your organic cotton t-shirt.”
I get a quick text out and post a video to Facebook. (Okay, that might not be necessary. Or is it? Exactly.)
Good thing I stopped and ate at a place with plastic cutlery since I’m not eating here—all I’ve had are Grade One, Grade A flashbacks!
I figure I’ll go back to my room and meditate or something. I arrive and ‘Female Only, Of Course’ (which—in this place—doesn’t really matter now does it?) is in her bunk in the loft. She’s older (or is she) and appears harmless (?). And though she’s cordial and offers a polite nod, she’s not chatty, and I’m relieved since I’ve already got my prejudices established. I get ready for bed. I figure if she does try something, I’ll hear her climbing down the ladder stairs; plus I’m wearing my Lulu’s under my jammy bottoms—just in case.
I go to bed and find it’s not made. WTH? I grab the laminated info sheet beside the ‘extra’ sheet set “… and when you leave, strip the bed and leave linens on the floor …” Holy holistic crap, this is summer camp!
‘Female Only’ turns out her light, and I’m left thumbing through the workshops pamphlet, the sound of turning pages echoing in the mute night. Finally, I bore myself to sleep, nodding off to the hum of a lone mosquito (spider snack) with not a fire truck siren, Harley Davidson muffler, dog bark, hoolagan hooting, ceiling-water-leak-drip-in-a-bucket to be heard. I almost miss Venice Boulevard.
The next morning ‘Female Only’ sneaks out well before light, and I lay there in the dark silence wondering what to do. I write for a bit and then get up and make my way down to the Intimidating Palace (the lodge) to see if I can stuff my pockets before heading out. In the daylight, Esalen is even more magical (lame, but appropriate). There’s a pool overlooking the expansive sea, windblown trees reminiscent of Tofino, BC, rugged nature everywhere, and a quality of air and atmosphere that cannot be described. This is bliss.
I grab a bad coffee, chat with a nice hippy lady and briefly contemplate the ‘clothing optional’ hot tubs. I can see them down there, too far to make out details but close enough to see a lot of fleshy tones. Hmm. I could get out of my comfort zone and try to connect. I could go down there and see wobbly bits and rock-in-sock tits and hair (oh, the hair!), but I’m authentic enough to know this isn’t my world. If this was a commissioned piece, if I was getting paid for this prose, well then by all means, I’d get out of my knickers and get out my knockers! But it’s not and I’m not. And I’m okay with that.
(Speaking of hair, this whole being single and it not being summer has me growing it out. All of it. Nasty stuff I tell you, just nasty.)
What have I (re)learned?
There are cliques in every sector of society. No matter how superior others act, it comes from a place inside of feeling inferior in some way. That’s my take.
Homework:
Hurt people hurt people. Hug a hippy. They are people, too. (Bathe after.)
