Out of rock face canyons and sledable dunes, appears suddenly the over abundant houses and prim and proper gardens of Malibu. Gated communities “greet” me, where I peak over barbed wire to catch a glimpse of olympic sized pools lined with geometrically finite stone masonry the ancient Egyptians would be proud of. Painted ceramic tiles, a multicolored brick road leading me passed houses of so called geniuses, heavily sagging foolishly on stilts above the unpredicting foaming surface of sea below.  A university with a funny name like Pepperdew or Perriwinkle with old school razor blade cut lawns lead me down a deep hill to something I had become accustomed to in California, a pier. But this pier was different. Rather than tipped with a mooring station for boats, or a fine dining establishment, I rode my bicycle to it’s edge only to interupt a school of fishermen, dressed in faded blues and yellows and fishy smells and baseball hats. To my immediate right, a big, bright, red door.

Guacamole Burger at Ruby's Diner

Ruby’s Diner, with it’s one metal legged laminated tables, topped by old school color coded condiment squeeze bottles, with walls covered in posters of well proportioned 50s vixens modelling burgers and malts that they had obviously never tasted, was a much needed sit down in a time where daddyo meant cool, not your pimp. As always, I was hungry and as always I looked for the most filling thing on the menu. Looking out the window I caught a glimpse of one fisherman’s hat, it’s brim, a few shreds of orange cotton and revealed cardboard. I felt me and that hat hard a lot in common at that moment. Indecisive as ever, close my eyes, point and the Gauc Burger and shake were placed in front of me, much to my surprise and my abyss of a stomach’s delight.

The morning started off with no coffee and a light drizzle of ocean spray and rain. The road, a cracked skin old person with many stories to tell if you just ride along at a good pace and listen. Farms with half deconstructed, salt washed fences, greet me every twenty kilometres or so. The beautiful flowers of yellow and deep purple grow naturally beside the flat highway that extends down the coast for hours and days. I don’t remember their smell, but I do remember how even in fog, they acted as the only obvious difference and border, between sea, sand and concrete. I also remember, that while at home, I never thought twice about stepping on living grass or dandelions, that I was cautious around this flora. I guess it was the unique drama they presented, the flamboyant contrast, the centre stage diva florified.

Flowers along the sea near Pescadero