Harbin, part 1

HOT AND COLD, ETERNAL YOUTH
Fountains of youth do exist! They're called hot springs. You can find them in most places where volcanic or tectonic activity exist, which makes California a hot springs haven.

I was first introduced to hot springs in Santa Barbara's backcountry, the "Big Caliente" springs. Along with watching the sunset over the ocean, laying in steaming water with stars shining above became my idea of relaxation.

I began to search for other hot springs. During my college years I'd often go snowboarding at Mammoth Mountain, a mountain which is actually a dormant volcano. Hence there were many popular and deserted hot springs in the area, and they became a mandatory stopping point to address both sore muscles and a general need for hedonism.

I discovered an interesting connection between hot springs and secluded beaches around the world: they are places where nudity suddenly becomes socially acceptable. It's quite remarkable how getting naked in the parking lot is frowned upon, but as soon as one walks two hundred feet to the sand or springs then nudity is just fine. I appreciate places that are an exception to the rule.

So far I was just an amateur at hot springs; dabbling in midnight dips with friends, mucking around with candles or beer. Then in September this year I received my initation into the "serious" world of soaking. I spent two weeks with my girlfriend Samantha at the Tassajara Zen Center, in the Big Sur wilderness area. There was hiking, waterfalls, and monks in black robes; but the standout in Tassajara was its bathhouse. We soaked at least twice daily and left feeling like royalty.

Back home in Morro Bay, I found out about a little spot called Franklin's Pond. Actually it's a warm swimming pool with concrete sides and a muddy bottom. Doesn't sound appealing? Well the water temperature is somewhere around perfect, leaving your body comfortable enough to flounder for hours, without getting too hot or cold. Healing properties of this pond are as of yet undocumented, but everyone from 90 year olds to injured athletes go there to soak.

The search hot springs continued. The next logical destination was Eselon, the famous (but pricey $$) center of alternative artists, dancers, and bodyworkers perched on the cliffs of Big Sur. I'd love to go there someday, but it's currenlty beyond my budget. Then Samantha made a new discovery: Harbin Hot Springs, north of San Fransisco.

"Harbin is like a poor man's Eselon." said our friend Stacey, who had been there several times. He raved about how great it was, but still, it was a 5 hour drive from Morro Bay. Then on the week of December 15th, it so happened that both Samantha and I had work off three days in a row. Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, perfect for a mid-week jaunt to Harbin with a quick stopover in SF City. "How about a little vacation to indulge in hot spring delight?" was Samantha's proposal.

I was stoked on the idea, but a skeptical little voice in my mind cried out. "It's probably an overpriced retreat with overrated warm tubs". My bank account was just above minimum bill-paying capability, and my credit card was maxed out. Plus, I had a ton of things to do at home.

But after one look at the website (http://www.harbin.org) the creative spark of imagination was on fire. Multiple hot & cold pools, free yoga classes, dance parties, a theatre with daily movies, all for $25/person camping fee? I read about the 150 full time residents, and realized Harbin was a community, not a tourist trap.

I had a vision: intact in the mountains of NorCal, a remnant of the 60's hippie/love movement, free-spirited and wonderful. Nostalgia for times the older generation speaks of, and my own curiosity for alternative experiences, made going to Harbin more and more irresistible.

The website tells us that although Harbin isn't a nudist colony, clothing-optional is the standard in the area. Nudity might repel some folks. But I consider any opportunity to be naked around strangers an interesting social experiment. Because nudity is taboo in our society, you never know how different groups of people will react together when they can see each other's private parts. Will it be awkward, indifferent, or wonderfully liberating? This was a chance to do some investigative work into human nature.

So the decision had to be made. How would I choose to experience the week of December 15th, 2004? Should I venture to an unique destination, and gamble that my financial distress would be paid off by good memories? Or should I stay home responsibly and do the chores that ensure my weekly sustenance? They say that our best attributes are also our greatest flaws, and I must admit that this is a weakness of mine: I just can't say No to a new experience. Take note. If anyone ever wants to take advantage of me, just suggest a crazy/unconvential adventure, and if there is a slim financial window that will support it, I probably won't back down. Heck, if there's memories to be had, and someone else is motivated to do it, then why shouldn't I? I'm just a sucker for life's interesting moments. So I called Samantha and packed my bags.

THE SAN FRANSISCO MAGIC
Driving north on the 101 Freeway towards San Fransisco, lovely Samantha in the passenger seat. I started calling some old friends who now live in San Fransisco. The essential component of any road trip is a surprise visit to an old friend who doesn't expect your visit. Alex P, from the UCSB tribe of free-spirited artists and globetrotters, answered his phone. "Yeah Beadle come over and check out my new apartment in the Castro!" We'll be there in two hours.

After meandering ten times through downtown SF in the confused stupor of country bumpkins, or that of any tourists unfamiliar with a big city, we finally find a convenient parking spot on Castro Avenue. It's a beautiful warm sunny day. Contrary to what everyone says about SF's foggy cold weather, every time I visit the weather is impeccable, like the city is trying to lure me back more often, reeling me in with its gemstones of sunshine. "Can a city exert that kind of power? Could it really be a conscious entity, one which chooses its inhabitants?" I wonder. That might explain why every city has its own identity.

We find Alex's apartment and stroll right in. We climb three sets of near-vertical stairs to reach the flat, just like in the movies. The apartment is unbelievable, classic Victorian style with a modern finish. Alex is passed out on his mattress. I jump on him in familiar Beadle-style greeting. "What's UP BUDDY!!" Evidently Alex and company had a big party last night, and he was having trouble getting out of bed. Two of his roommates were crashed on the couch. It's 4PM - shouldn't they have recovered by now? But hey, what do I know about big city parties.

"25 bottles of wine, a lot of good food. Yeah man it was the best." Alex nods, and tells us about the party in his unshakeably charismatic tone. Samantha and I hear about his endeavors in wonder. We take a tour of the pad, and Alex now talks about his landlord. "He's a Marxist-theory professor, an old guy with amazing long white hair, and he charges us two-thirds the market value for the rent. Pretty cool, huh?" What a great landlord. The tour ends on the rooftop with a great view of the city. The orange light glinted over the stacked rooftops of the city. Whereas endless rows of buildings are typically a sore sight a nature-boy like myself, I was surprised at how beautiful the architectural ensemble was, a Victorian symphony of three-story homes.

"See, the street down there?" Alex points his finger towards the hustle-bustle of the traffic. "The pizza shop I work for is across from the Castro Theatre."

The Castro was, incidentally, the setting for the Big Bang of the '60s gay movement, the beginning of a worldwide shift in perception towards homosexuals, the dialogue of which continued in this year's presidential elections: shall we forbid or accept gay marriage? I didn't expect to find the answer to such a polemic social question in my brief 3 hour visit to the Castro.

We walked down the street to the pizza shop. Alex was about to start his night shift of pizza deliveries, wearing a plush coat and red scarf, walking with the enthusiastic gait of an award-winning delivery boy. If should a thing exists, then Alex deserves it. He handed us a big slice of gourmet veggie pizza, then walked out the door with two boxes.

As I ate my artichoke & mushroom pizza, I thought. "What a funny coincidence. After graduating college, I was also working at a pizza shop and a catering job." (Side note: Alex is also working at a catering job) We're both graduates from UCSB, with more than enough qualifications to get a full time job. So why do we choose this unglorious lifestyle?" It's all about the flexible vagabondhood I guess. We have good food, just enough money coming in to pay simple bills, and ample time for the things we live for: surfing, sailing, music, writing. A refined version of being a bum.

Soon I ended my daydreams, and left Alex P and the Castro behind, going in the direction of the Golden Gate Bridge. It was nighttime, the lights of the city shimmered over the Bay, and then we went around a corner and it was all gone. After an hour and a half we were in mountain roads, slowly curving around tight corners, just keeping my eyelids open by willpower. We weren't too far from Harbin, but we pulled the Chevy Blazer into a side street, made a cozy bed of blankets and sleeping bags, and passed out until dawn.

...to be continued