by Doreen Orion
As we neared California, I checked around on the Internet. One place seemed particularly promising, so I called and asked if they were, indeed, clothing optional.
“No,” the lady unequivocally answered.
“Oh. I’m sorry. I must have the wrong information,” I apologized, hoping she didn’t think me some weirdo. But something in her voice made me query further.
“So…people don’t walk around naked?” I tried to confirm.
“Oh, yes, they do,” she answered. Is this place English optional, or what?
“OK…but you’re not clothing optional,” I offered slowly, with impeccable pronunciation.
“No, we’re nudist,” she snapped. Well, excuuuuse me.
“I’m not sure I know the difference,” I conceded. She explained that when inside the park, one is required to be naked. Now I got it. It was the optional, not the clothing, that was the problem with the whole clothing optional thing. Who knew? I proceeded with what I thought was a perfectly reasonable follow-up question.
“Can I wear shoes?” She guffawed, muzzled the phone, and called out to some other nudity-requiring linguiphile, “She wants to know if she can wear shoes!” For those as clueless as I, the answer is yes. I decided she could keep her shod-optional accommodations and found a different park.
When we pulled into Olive Dell Ranch Nudist Resort near San Bernardino, I faced yet another dilemma: Usually, I headed to the office to check in while Tim stayed with the bus. Should I take my clothes off now? What if, in a variation on the universal nightmare, this was some god-awful joke and everyone was clothed but me? I was wearing earrings. Do I take them off, too? A valid question, methinks, even after the shoe debacle. I could have called on my cell phone and asked, but it seemed a mite like the shoes question and I didn’t feel like being laughed at again just yet, especially as I was anticipating that reaction as soon as I stepped off the bus, anyway.
I kept my clothes on. The woman in the office had not. (If ever I can’t work at home anymore, this could very well be my dream job, for even though I’d have to leave the house, I still wouldn’t have to get dressed.) She told us where to park and that the owner would come by to show us around.
The campground itself is at the end of a long, winding road set on 140 acres up against a tree-studded hill with views of the surrounding countryside and valley. There are about two hundred members, half of whom are permanent residents, the rest weekenders, with about another fifty to a hundred visitors like us just passing through at various points in the summer to stay in the handful of cabins and RV spaces. After we parked, we saw the owner approach. He was in his forties and nude, but wore an open work shirt against the sun (and sneakers, I was pleased to note). We quickly donned (or, rather, undonned) similar gear and met him outside.
I soon discovered that none of my concerns mattered. In a nudist park, everything is stripped down, so to speak. As Tim observed, there’s no macho, no pretense, no posturing. Your balls (and whether or not you have any) are out there for everyone to see. (Especially, as we would later discover, when partaking of naked karaoke.)
That first day, we hung out at the pool, relaxed, read, and met some of the locals. (No murmurs of “your rig or mine” to be heard.) As was my custom, if I got a call to do a review, I did it. I had already blogged about being in the nudist park, so after Alison and I finished discussing a case, she asked in a whisper, “Are you talking to me while you’re naked?”
“Yep.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. I’m naked. Tim’s naked. Bill, Sue, and Cameron are naked…”
“Oh, my.”
In Boulder, I used to get a kick out of the fact that the doctors I reviewed probably assumed I was wearing a business suit in an office somewhere, instead of at home in my pajamas with a cat on my lap. (And, in fact, if Morty was in one of his talkative moods, I usually explained it away with “Someone brought her baby into work.”) Olive Dell Ranch brought that titillation to a whole new level.
Our first night, Tim started closing all the curtains in the bus. I wondered why—we’d been nude all day, anyway. He explained he was about to start cooking and for his own safety needed to put on clothes; he didn’t want to offend anybody.
We both had to dress, of course, to leave for our day trips to Joshua Tree National Park and Palm Springs. And each time during our weeklong stay, we did so reluctantly. This nudist resort was the friendliest RV park we’d ever stayed in. (It was also quite cheap, although we easily made that up in sunscreen.) Established in 1952, it has been owned and operated by two generations of the same family and the atmosphere was completely laid-back. The married owners, Bobby and Becky, grew up there in nudist families and now raise their own children in the park. Bobby, who is also the cook (working in the kitchen clad only in an apron), gave me his recipe for the best tuna salad I’ve ever tasted. Like every place on the planet, this one also has its eccentrics, including the woman who explained why she couldn’t stop to chat, saying, “I have to catch my breath. I just had brisket.” But our favorite had to be the maintenance guy who walks around nude except for his tool belt. An interesting effect, for every time he turned around, I nearly exclaimed, “Hey! You dropped your…” Oops.
“Letting it all hang out” certainly reinforced my newfound freedom going designer brand–less. For Tim, it underscored the resolve that led to the bus thing in the first place: to do what was right for him (taking a year off, part of it, as it turned out, naked) versus what was expected of him (working himself to death, albeit fully clothed). This further solidified his ideas about career for when we returned. Finally, being so stripped down, he also could not help but take his other hang-ups less seriously.
(“Like what?”
“I’m not telling you. I don’t want people reading about all my hang-ups. It’s enough for them to know I took them less seriously.”)
Between the two of us, Tim and I have several friends in this part of the country. We stopped and visited each one. While we haven’t seen any of them in years and only rarely talk on the phone, somehow we’re still close. In every single case, we picked up as if we’d just had dinner the night before.
Alene is one of my best friends from residency. We’re about as different as friends can be: She was never interested in private practice. She had no patience for patients with “issues.” She wanted to go where the need was greatest, to treat the sickest of the sick, so she became the first female psychiatrist to work on San Quentin’s death row. Now she’s chief of psychiatry at Pelican Bay State Prison, which houses some of California’s most dangerous inmates. And we’re still about as different as friends can be: I wear designer duds. She wears a slash-proof vest. I go to Mr. Lai for tailoring. She gets her fittings at the armory. When I’m interviewed for a new contract, it’s on the phone in the safety and comfort of my own home. When she interviews for a job, she must first sign a waiver acknowledging the “no hostage policy” (and this after passing the sign helpfully informing all comers “NO WARNING SHOTS FIRED”). She always laughed at me for my sheltered life. I always told her, “Thank God for sheltered.” After the bus thing, I bet she thinks my life is less sheltered. Then again, maybe not.
We spent an afternoon with Alene and her partner, Debra, at their lovely home just prior to her promotion. As a dog person (who is also allergic to cats, but has acclimated to ours over the years), Tim could not understand their living with eight felines (they also had one very understanding terrier). I promptly informed him that if I were living alone, I’d probably have twice that number. He wasn’t so much impressed as horrified. Debra, ever the caring hostess, laid out towels for us and offered the use of their shower and other indoor plumbing, thinking that surely living in a bus for a year meant we’d been roughing it. As I said, it’s Alene and I who have been close.
Farther up the coast, we stayed at a campground just off Marina Dunes State Beach, a lovely, protected and uncrowded stretch of the Monterey Peninsula that was
simply a pleasure to amble on, especially with camera in one hand and husband’s hand (or dog’s leash) in the other.
Joanne, another dear friend from residency, lived nearby and we had her over for a Tim-cooked feast. She’s the one he loves for me to stay in touch with because he thinks her rotten luck in men makes me appreciate my man all the more. Even though she wasn’t currently dating anyone (so, much to Tim’s chagrin, had no new tales of horror to tell), we both loved seeing her.
We didn’t just visit old friends, but a new one, as well. It’s funny how people can come into your life. I “met” John years ago when I hired him to critique one of my screenplays. I had inauspiciously gotten his name out of a magazine, but it turned out to be an incredibly valuable experience. Over the years, I’d sent him additional scripts and we’d developed a friendship over e-mail and phone calls, discussing writing and life in general. I knew he and Tim would hit it off, so when we passed near Los Angeles, we all met for dinner. I was right. (Since then, John has visited us in Boulder.) It is funny how people can come into your life. And how, when you make the time, they stay there.
Finally, near San Francisco, we visited one of Tim’s best friends from college, Dave, who he roomed with throughout his four years. He was the most easygoing kid Tim had ever known. Then he became the CFO of a major Silicon Valley company. In many ways, Tim had always admired Dave and I could see why: Dave seems to live his life deliriously happy with whatever he has, never feeling he needs to look any further. Early on while they were in college, he formulated exactly what he wanted to do and where he wanted to go. He then got exactly where he said he’d be and has been supremely satisfied with the results. But we always got the impression that even if he weren’t quite so successful, he’d still be as happy. This again made Tim think about how his self-image had been riding on the profession of medicine, when now he couldn’t be happier riding on three axles.
As we left the Bay Area to head for the Redwoods, we remembered the story of Scotty and his castle and realized that by putting such a high value on friendship, Albert Johnson had his priorities right. We thought of all the time spent at home doing…what? We didn’t recall, but knew we’d always cherish these visits. What in the world has been more important than connecting with these dear people? We couldn’t think of a thing.
Traveling farther up the California coast we passed the town of Prunedale. “Prunedale. Full of regular folk,” Tim quipped.
Just before crossing into Oregon, I started talking to—well, OK, yelling at the TV. Tim wasn’t too worried. After all, in our line of work, we see people doing that all the time. What did worry him was when the TV started talking back.
I’m boarded in forensic psychiatry, so I’ve always been fascinated with court proceedings. Throw in outlandish fashion, an old Motown connection, and really, how could I possibly resist the Michael Jackson trial? I watched the coverage on and off while I did reviews during the mornings we stayed in the bus. One day as I worked at my desk half watching Court TV, Tim sat in front of me on the love seat, reading the paper and eating his cereal. He had no interest in the proceedings, but given our small space, didn’t have much of a choice in the matter.
I thought I had a really interesting point that none of the correspondents were making, so I e-mailed the anchor. Tim was by then very used to my railing at the TV when no one was saying what, in my opinion, they should be saying about the trial, so easily tuned it all out. That is, until one of the anchors said, “We’ve gotten some very good viewer e-mails, especially this one from Dr. Doreen Orion, forensic psychiatrist.”
Tim promptly spit up his milk. I promptly became spitting mad, for while the anchor attempted to make my point, she screwed it up so badly that it ended up sounding totally lame. When Tim could breathe again he said, while wiping milk from his chin, shirt, newspaper, and the love seat, “Did you really say that? It was totally lame.” I dug up my brilliant e-mail and read it to him. He had to admit, “Good point.” Then, not five minutes later, the same airheaded anchor did make my point, nearly verbatim, but without attributing it to me. I became apoplectic.
“That plagiarizing bitch!” I screamed. But I’m a benevolent vidiot, so decided to give her another chance. The very next morning, I e-mailed that little stinker with yet another brilliant point. This time, I read Tim the e-mail just before I hit “send.” He went back to his cereal and newspaper with a barely indulgent sigh. Sure enough, within minutes, she made my point again (it was obvious she was listening to someone read it over her earpiece). Tim, hearing the exact same words come out of the TV that I had spoken only moments before, spit up his milk again, then whirled around to shoot me a questioning look. I nodded, assuring him of his sanity and we both waited with bated breath. Nothing. That plagiarizing bitch didn’t even mention me this time. Well, I’ll show her. I moved on to another anchor and cut the bitch off. Let’s see if she can find anything useful to say on her own. I’ll have her begging, BEGGING, I say.
I’m still waiting for her call.
Perhaps my psychotic break was partly precipitated by lack of sleep. The birds in this part of the country really need to get a life. At three o’clock every morning they’d start with the chirping. Only it wasn’t just any old chirping. It was so utterly embellished with runs that even Paula Abdul would have told them less is more. The only other birdcalls I’d ever heard that over-the-top were from Indian scouts in old B-movie Westerns. After several sleepless nights I’d finally had enough and shouted, “Attack the frigging fort already and let me get some sleep!”
Since we’d been to Oregon before, we mainly intended to just pass through on our way to Washington. Yet it was my lunch that nearly passed through—the wrong way—for much of our drive through the state.
The hairpin turns up Highway 199 from California almost did me in. On the plus side, the drive substantially enhanced my clinical skills as it made me understand why psychotics engage in what therapists term “self-quieting behavior” (rocking, word repetition, twirling hair, etc.). This psychiatrist’s mantra as we twisted over Highway 199 became the rather unimaginative but still evocative “Kill me kill me kill me kill me,” the words somehow making their way to my lips before I was even aware they’d formed in my brain.
Minutes went by until I even realized what I was saying. The error was immediately apparent. I’m not afraid of dying. I’m afraid of dying like this. My newest new mantra then became “Kill me, but not like this…kill me, but not like this…” Soon I couldn’t take it anymore and rather dramatically announced I was going to the back of the bus to kill myself. As always, Tim brought me back to earth. This time with the observation “So I guess you’ll be in the bathroom, trying to slit your wrists with your electric razor?” The guy actually charges people for this stuff?
To see somewhere I’d never been (and to get me away from that road), we veered off near Medford and headed to Crater Lake, Oregon. Tim had been there as a kid and remembered how beautiful it was. Unfortunately, we never actually saw it. Not that we didn’t try. It was snowing—in mid-May. The park ranger at the entrance informed us visibility was nil. I was about to ask, “Is it often that way?” when he handed us a printed sheet titled “Rainy Day Suggestions.”
Still, it was a good thing we made the trip, as we found an excellent welding shop in the area when the last of our Peter-installed devices—this time the trailer hitch connecting the Jeep to the bus—collapsed. The welder said he’d never seen such shoddy work. We just shook our heads and figured that was only because he’d missed the opportunity, since we’d already purged the bus of the rest of what Peter had done.
We made a quick cut north on the interstate. Just north of Eugene, passing through Coburg, we saw Marathon Coach, just off I-5. If my mecca had been the Mall of America, this was Tim’s, the epicenter of high-end Prevost conversions, where a brand-new, fully outfitted bus might run as high as two million dollars. As we passed by, I saw him steal reverential glances at the gleaming line of coache
s beckoning from the lot.
“We could stop. See if they’ll give us a tour,” I offered. Tim shook his head. Sometimes, it’s better just to dream.
Barreling through Scappoose, near Portland, we passed the “Peace Candle,” really more of a peace silo, painted red with a giant, gaudy, fake flame on top. Tim said he could just feel the world drawing closer together as we whizzed by on 30 West.
We took a detour and headed for the coast, where we were treated to spectacular views, particularly when we stopped along the Columbia River gorge and climbed the 164 stairs of the 125-foot-high Astoria Column. Thankfully, after that trek, it was a clear day and we were rewarded with a view all the way to Mount St. Helens.
Before heading into Canada to catch the ferry to Alaska, we stopped in Wenatchee, Washington, for a week to see Lisa and Jim, two of our closest friends. Jim had been Tim’s “sponsor” in the dorm during his freshman year of college at Pomona and they had been close ever since. After Tim and I started dating, the four of us traveled together a few times and we spent a week every summer at their cabin in Wyoming. Even our dogs got along famously. Lisa and I hit it off right away and have become good friends of our own. So much so, I’ve told Tim if he ever divorces me, I get Lisa in the settlement.