Getting Lost in the Art of Travel
“Through my own efforts,” John Steinbeck wrote in “Travels with Charley: In Search of America,” “I am lost most of the time without help from anyone.”
Through my own travels I have been lost many times with help from someone – my son.
The boyhood home of John Steinbeck in Salinas, California is now a restaurant/museum. He wrote his first two novels — The Red Pony and Tortilla Flat — in his bedroom upstairs (on the left in this photo).
Nonetheless, over the years we have had our Gilligan and Skipper moments. Most recently last week when The Boy was home for spring break and we got lost in Salinas looking for The Steinbeck House restaurant.
Technology, not The Boy, was to blame as the GPS directions app developed a “recalculating” stutter. Like Neil Armstrong coolly landing Apollo 11’s Lunar Module manually, The Boy turned off the computer and trusted himself until finally: “Mission Control, the Prius has parked.”
The half-hour travail was well worth it.
The Queen Anne style Victorian house was built in 1897 and Steinbeck was born in the front bedroom (now the restaurant’s reception area) five years later. In the early 1930s he wrote his first two novels – “The Red Pony” and “Tortilla Flat” – in the front upstairs bedroom overlooking the valley.
The 1962 Nobel Prize for Literature recipient’s boyhood home was authentically restored and opened to the public for tours – and lunches – in 1974 and designated a Literary Landmark in 1995. As a writer, I was mesmerized. As a bonus, no museum anywhere serves a tastier chicken salad sandwich.
Our step back in time included stepping down into the cellar (now the gift shop) where two volunteer docents – who might have read “Grapes of Wrath” when it was first published in 1940 – were befuddled by the computerized cash register and eventually calculated my purchase with pencil, paper and a sales tax chart.
The road trip extended to San Francisco where The Boy got lost in reverence inside an art gallery featuring a remarkable collection of Salvador Dali’s work. The Boy so fell in love with art under the magical mentorship of Patti Post at Ventura High School that he minored in Painting in college. Our home now resembles an art show with his framed pieces throughout.
As usual I wandered the gallery more quickly than The Boy. An aggressive salesperson, however, matched my pace even after I politely explained I was not looking to buy but was merely along for the ride with my artist son.
My favorite Dali on display was a beautiful ink drawing of his wife, Gala. I should probably mention it is a nude. In defense of my lingering gaze, I will also share that nude pieces always bring to mind a story The Boy tells about the evening one of his college art classes had a nude model . . .
. . . a hairy gentleman who, like The Steinbeck House docents, may have read “The Grapes of Wrath” in first edition.
Even when we get lost, I always enjoy my Travels With Greg (aka “The Boy”).
Out of curiosity I asked the saleswoman the price of the Dali nude. “Seventy-five thousand,” came the answer and I didn’t even blink, distracted from the stunning Gala by the image of those stunned college art students.
Eventually I found myself in a room dedicated to Picassos. The saleswoman followed, as did her questions, including this: “Are you a collector?”
“Oh, no,” I replied, amused she would think I could afford anything in this pricey gallery, adding nonchalantly with a casual sweep of my hand towards wherever The Boy now was in the gallery: “Only HIS stuff.”
Her eyes widened with thrill: “You have exquisite taste!”
Instantly I realized what had been lost in translation – she thought my gesture had been to signify Picasso’s stuff.
Thus another wonderful trip became even more so, for as Steinbeck also wrote in “Travels with Charley” – “One goes, not so much to see but to tell afterward.”
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Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com.
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