SAN SIMEON, U.S.A. – South of the lighthouse sits a monument where Chinese fishermen used to gather seaweed and abalone. There, the wind gullies have grass flopping over centuries perhaps. Point Piedras Blancas alludes to the Mexicans that used to extend into the region. These days, cars flash by; on weekends, there is a line of out-of-towners, continuing into Hearst Castle.
The bus up to the top of the slope winds past where animals were kept by Hearst. Now, they are ghosts, haunting these yellowed hillsides. Yellowed is the reality of San Simeon to outsiders. Even though it is spring, the whole of the area is cast in drought-like conditions.
The pool reflects off a gaggle of folks after a tour or two, feet-worn from the day. The gardens extend and fall back intermittently throughout the Julia Morganesque mansion.
In the back, in the courtyard, sits her architectural digs. What is left are paper and wooden table marking. From this mind sprouted the revival we stroll through; marking the wooden ceilings flown in from Europe, a rich man’s sad longings transferred into this paradise of fine goods.
If one has a chance to swing by San Simeon, do. Past the eucalyptus lining the charmed single-file, you can almost imagine yourself far from the constructs of modern life.
postcardsfromanne.com 