Bellevue

I’d hoped to be up earlier but by the time we’d finished work, found the obscure hotel, and gotten dinner it had been nearly eleven. I felt tired when I woke, a feeling that has become common as the sixty hour work weeks consume me. I gave myself the standard no excuses speech and threw on my running clothes. The only appropriate stretching aid in the room was the tiny refrigerator by the door. It would have to do. Out by the trail my car’s rear bumper works well.
I thought that maybe the path along the bay would be nice; I’d walked it a short distance yesterday while I was waiting for the truck to arrive. The length was certainly there but so was the job, and I would see the large, white tents and the furniture as I passed. Maybe along the waterfront back in town, near the hotel, no, that would be inappropriate at only a few blocks and I’d have to continue on one of the narrow, cluttered streets, and anyway, San Francisco’s Embarcadero held far more appeal, at least in memory.

The mansions, it would have to be the mansions. We’d driven Bellevue Avenue in our search for the hotel, driven it in the wrong direction and then doubled back after a stranger in on the sidewalk responded to our inquiry. I’d been on this road once before, in the evening as well, but I’d never really seen the mansions.
It was an uphill climb to the start, both spiritually and topographically. I started off at a jog but soon realized that walking the six or seven steep blocks would be a better choice, and a chance to warm up. The streets were tiny and some were laid with cobblestones, the clapboard and shingle houses separated by little more than the breeze that blew off the bay.
After leveling off, the route began with the boutiques and shopping malls that lined the blocks preceding the wealth and privilege of the past. I was surprised at the condition of the sidewalk; coarse, uneven, weathered gravel. After a few minutes I decided that I would never make it on a surface that torqued my ankles constantly and so dropped off the curb to the street. There seemed to be ample room, and although not officially designated, the expansion joint a couple of feet from the edge seem to serve as a border to a bike lane. As it turned out, I wasn’t the only one who felt that way.
I began to travel backwards in time. As I moved along the wide, straight, concrete avenue, the mansions grew larger and more palatial, staggering in their sheer size. Limestone columns that rivaled the Parthenon, curved, marble staircases and balustrades, wings that led to other wings, homes built to a scale that almost defies reality. Huge windows with the curtains tied back, straddling a ballroom or lavish dining room allowed the low sun to pour through from the ocean side.
Ancient oaks spilled over black, iron gates with gilded accents while transparent figures in proper Victorian attire strolled casually over immaculately maintained lawns. I could see them; I could see the white, lace gowns and the black suits and the pipes, the upper echelon of past generations chatting idly about their place in society.

Each property had a name either on the gate or on one of the many elaborate limestone walls that protected the massive structures from the less fortunate population, and most also had a plaque that designated it a member of the Newport Preservation Society. Only a few said “private” at the entrance. One was now a museum of illustration and daily guided tours were offered by at least two or three. I wouldn’t have the time to participate in one of those this time around, thinking that maybe I would come back when work was not a factor.

The road made a sharp right at the end of the run of mansions and then another half a mile or so farther on. This led to a left turn onto Ocean Drive, the newly paved, asphalt road that followed the coastline back into town, the long way around. The moon was in front of me, full, and a little higher in the sky then the sun that was now at my back. It appeared as transparent as the figures on the lawns but with features just as discernable.
I thought I’d left the majesty of Bellevue, and I suppose I had since the houses now were a bit more contemporary but equally as grand. The first, at the top of the hill to my right was a sprawling white stucco affair with no less than eight chimneys. This was obviously a year round residence, unlike the gaudier, more ostentatious manors that I remembered somewhere along the way were only summer homes, occupied maybe two months out of the year, then the furniture was draped and the doors locked. They had no chimneys, at least none that were plainly visible.
The urge to keep moving forward nearly took over but I knew I was getting to a point where I would have to turn around in order to get back in time for the workday to begin. Just a little farther, to the top, close to the level of the lower windows where I could get a sense of what the allure of living by the ocean might be. My father had a condo on the coast of California for quite a few years and I visited from time to time, but it was difficult to conceive of being there daily, the view only of water and sky.
As I made the turn I understood. The seemingly endless ocean spread out in front of me, there was a small cove with a gray, sandy beach, and seagulls gathered and squawked above the shallow water. Rocky cliffs, cattails and tall grass decorated the landscape. The scene was stunning, dwarfing the man made structures that could only admire the vastness and the mystery of nature from their tiny perches. I could easily imagine looking out over this every day as the light and the colors shift constantly, painting a new image with each passing season, each passing day, each passing hour.

As I made my way back past the grandeur of competitive opulence, one other unusual aspect of this particular run struck me; almost everyone that I had passed, whether jogging or biking or just walking, waved and said “good morning”, all but two I think. This was a first. There were smiles and plenty of eye contact, even from across the street. I was astounded and began to wonder what the cost of living might be and what I could do for work if I chose to dwell here for a time.

As always I deviated, needing to go just a little farther, down the hill and along the docks, with the clutter of too many sailboats in too little bay. I would approach the hotel from the other side, slow to a walk at the base of the street that leads to the front door, and spend ten minutes cooling down.
I got back to my room just in time to take a quick shower and meet the crew downstairs for breakfast, managing for the last hour and a half to have forgotten about the task at hand and experience a unique beauty that the others would never know.