What would you say about them before the 101? About wealth, class, Montecito? Way before Oprah they married. Celebrated anniversaries, Precarious knows, before the 101. Chill damp Central Coast nights, down jacket, walk to Butterfly Beach, cross railroad tracks, quiet to the wall, stairs, sand. Hike toward Stearns Wharf, or away to Carpentaria. Water wind storm erode bluffs near petrol idols and history buffs. Swim the pool before the 101, still cold when you emerge, way that air hits wet skin. Seriously unlike Florida. Before the 101 sliced through, left rich people on Coast Village, fine cars, super houses crawling hills no matter fire, earthquake, mudslide, before Oprah.
They’ll claim it’s paradise with or without the freeway along parking lots and hedges, bordering the palace, walk the bridge now to utterly, you’re paying for something but it’s not the 101. Precarious pretends, hugging that cliff, that automobiles and trucks perpetual no lull not even 3 a.m sound like waves breaking land.
Recline next to the pool anyway, or in the lobby, ignore engines tires-to-surface screams to satellites. It’s okay, fantasize, imagine the 101 isn’t there. The state gone, too, and laborers, immigrants, taco trucks, housecleaners, teachers - none exist next to your drink driving north sound reverberates gut. Nostalgic intoxicant of California before orange groves, movie stars, dry hills. Mudslides and butterflies.