Adventures and Misadventures

I looked down at the $40 appetizer section and rubbed my hands together the way I do when I get uncomfortable.

My grandfather sat across from me- all ruddy cheeks and flashing blue eyes. The contrast was comical, really. Here he was- the boy who spent the 1940’s living on the dirt floor of a cabin in a northern Californian logging town now deliberating between fine seafood dishes.

I grimace-smiled as our eyes met over my black leather menu, barely stifling my giggle as he said, “Well, sometimes you just have to enjoy the finer things”. That may be true, but I would have liked to come prepared.

Like many misadventures, this one started with a request; my grandmother wanted crab.

A large amount of the restaurants in downtown La Jolla were clearly out of our price range. And so, we jumped on the deal we thought we detected in the slightly dilapidated appearance of a ‘crab shack’ across the street.

Walking under the hand-painted sign and down a 3 level maze of wooden paneled walls we were fronted with shiny black shoes and a stiff smile that asked “Three today?” I looked around. We were standing in a small brick square fixed between red columns and the sea. It was a dignified setting; a place of white tablecloths and rehearsed conversations.

His shoes really were very shiny, and I could feel my face redden slightly as I glanced quickly down at my own well-loved Birkenstocks. However, by some happy coincidence the waiter hadn’t realized we didn’t belong and beckoned us forward.

I had never really been a seafood fan, but this didn’t exactly seem like the place to advertise my aversion to fish.

I ended up splitting an ornate crab dish with my grandmother, hardly noticing the foreign flavor after the first taste. We took bites between stories of past trips to New Orleans and salmon-catching ventures in the Alaskan wilderness.

Occasionally we looked around at the suits and ties that came, exchanged business cards, and left without really looking at the glittering expanse of the Pacific Ocean in front of us.

It was one of those times not quite expected and never quite forgotten. I remember walking back up the stairs and through Pollock and Picasso paintings as we explored some of the art galleries on the way back.
After throwing away my spotless caramel apple stick in the hotel rubbish bin I joined my grandma on a sunny balcony chair, appreciating the growing soreness in my legs from walking all afternoon.