I’m still reading the biography of Mark Twain by Ron Chernow. The book is more than 1,000 pages long, so cut me some slack.
My last column channeled Twain’s propensity to write fake news stories when he was a journalist. Prior to picking up Chernow’s tome, I didn’t know that Twain was a purveyor of tall tales. I also didn’t know he traveled around the world.
Twain was a terrible businessman, so he toured to give talks and thereby earn money to pay off his debts. Furthermore, his travels provided him with rich material to write about.
So, with that, I’m ready to channel Twain again; this time as a fellow traveler.
CHAPTER I — In which I embark upon a grand tour
When Mr. Mark Twain toured the world, he crossed oceans and continents, braved strange climates, and sampled exotic foods in foreign countries. His speeches, sprinkled with jokes, stories and sarcastic attacks on orthodoxy, were extraordinarily popular.
I, too, have set out to follow his path. However, mine is across 101. My itinerary: Milpitas, Los Baños, Salinas and Gilroy.
Armed with a pen, a notebook and a thirst for exploring, I ventured forth.
CHAPTER II — Milpitas, site of the Great Mall jewel
Twain wrote glowingly about Paris, where the boulevards are broad and the coffee is strong. Milpitas has boulevards broad enough for three lanes of traffic and numerous abandoned shopping carts strewn by the side of the road. The Great Mall rises like a modern cathedral, drawing pilgrims from every imaginable place to worship at the altar of discounted sneakers.
I roamed these halls and took sustenance at the food court, sampling the regional delicacy, consisting of Orange Julius. I observed the native custom of finding a table only after carrying your tray in slow circles for twenty minutes.
CHAPTER III — Los Baños, baths without the baths
The name Los Baños, means “the baths.” However, there are no Roman marble baths. Moreover, I failed to encounter any noble senators debating policy, although I did speak to a waitress who called me “Hon,” before I uttered a word. She spoke glowingly about the virtues of the daily specials. To her intense disappointment I ordered a veggie burger and salad. Check out the Burger Den!
While exiting Los Baños, I was impressed by the cleanliness of the Chevron station restroom where I paused. My all-electric car doesn’t come with a toilet.
CHAPTER IV — Salinas, the other Man of Letters
Twain roamed Florence and Vienna, socializing with the literary elite. I roamed Salinas, home of John Steinbeck, navigating around high school field trips. The National Steinbeck Center offers exhibits on the man’s life and works, and (thankfully) air conditioning.
Standing before a replica of The Grapes of Wrath truck, I felt a kinship with Steinbeck. We both have driven Highway 101, though he did it with a deeper plot. I honored him by eating a large burrito. I guess I blew that one. Steinbeck would have expected me to eat fish instead.
CHAPTER V — Gilroy, Kingdom of Garlic
In Twain’s era, men traveled to the Orient for spices; I traveled to Gilroy for the garlic, which greets the visitor well before the city limits. Here, the Garlic Festival celebrates the bulb. Garlic ice cream, garlic jelly, garlic wine. Twain would no doubt wonder what has become of humans.
The best part of visiting Gilroy is that I am now safe—for who knows how long—from trespassing vampires. The clothes I wore during my visit, however, have yet to recover.
CHAPTER VI — Reflections upon returning
Twain said travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry and narrow-mindedness. I can report it is equally fatal to one’s stomach (perhaps I should have gotten the daily special at the Burger Den). And, if you travel to Gilroy, deadly to any hope your breath won’t register as a controlled substance.
I return from my journey wiser, having learned that every town offers curiosities at which to marvel, food to remember and at least one restroom worthy of a bronze plaque.
And so, my odyssey ends. I have not crossed oceans, but I have crossed the Bay Area at rush hour. I am here, against all odds and traffic, to tell the tale.
Twain emerged from his journeys a celebrated Man of Letters; I return from my journey a man with suspicious, garlic-smelling stains on my car’s passenger seat.
