Malibu

Last night, after a day's worth of meetings, we all went to Malibu for dinner at some restaurant on the pier. To get to Malibu we had to drive through the mountains. Quite a breathtaking drive, that. Vertical and horizontal folds of earth, green distant valleys shimmering in the sunset while the car plunged through shadow, little hillsides furrowed with rows of grape vines, which made one think of a child's head done with cornrows, which of course turned everything back on itself, as sights such as this inspired the term "cornrows" in the first place. There were some long tunnels too, with tiled, arched walls, and hung with round lamps at even intervals. Then the ocean came into view for the first time, its silver expanse backlit by a band of rose-colored light that stretched along the horizon. Quite nice. There was a rundown hotel right on the beach, and then Pepperdine University, and finally the pier. In the distance, to the south, you could see the ferris wheel at the Santa Monica Pier spinning like a tiny spark just above the water, and the planes at LAX lined up and slowly ascending with their lights flickering in the fog.
The restaurant was fine. The food was adequate. The conversation was typical of businessmen after a long day -- reminiscences, commentary on the state of local and national politics, a few bon mots thrown out by someone whose intellectual curiosity, and whose desire to have a really meaningful conversation, was duly ignored. While we were waiting for the entrée I excused myself and went outside to call my wife. I walked to the edge of the pier as I was talking, and happened to look down at the beach below. A couple of leather-clad cyclists, a man and his girlfriend, were crouched on their helmets, looking out at the water, and having a smoke. I could hear the flick of his lighter; she pulled her head back and, pointing the cigarette skyward, took a long drag. Then, holding the cigarette away, she lowered her head, and exhaled.
The beauty of the mountains and the ocean made the whole experience well worthwhile. I can't imagine how Sean Penn could live here and still be angry enough to punch out all those photographers.