Our stay in Santa Monica encompassed eight nights and as many days, as we enjoyed a variety of sights. We stayed with relatives who knew the area quite well and therefore provided a guided tour through some of the attractions, including Universal Studios, Huntington Gardens, Will Roger's Ranch, and shopping mall, and of course, Disneyland. No trip to the west coast would be complete without a jaunt to the latter amusement park and we made ours an all-day affair. On our own we traveled to another amusement park, Magic Mountain, which boasted a vast array of rides better suited to my suicidal whims. At the day's end, my dad and I had been whipped, jolted, plunged, riveted and lost as many stomachs as cats have lives to have satisfied my boldest cravings for at least a month. Mom, as usual, was most content to sit and watch. Had she indulged in some of the wilder rides, I fear she would have at best, suffered from acute hoarseness and at worst, been carried from the park on a stretcher. Leaving California, we stopped at one of their famous "Date Farms" and to my utter disappointment, saw no date trees. At least the place did not charge admission or try to plaster a revolting bumper sticker on the car while shopping within the "supermarket." Skirting the southern route through Arizona on our way home, I discovered the meaning of "hot" when referring to weather. At 112 degrees I was extremely pleased that we had an air-conditioned car; ventures into the sunshine were like tiptoeing through a blast furnace. Sweat dried on the face, forming a sticky glaze with the dust floating on the hot air currents. I would not have been surprised to see spit dry before hitting the ground. Two days into the blistering heat we stopped at White Sands National Monument. The sand was so blindingly white that attempts to gaze at the drifts without sun-glasses were hopeless endeavors. On that particular day I was unable to walk bare-foot on the fine sand due to its scorching heat, and we finally decided to duck into the visitor center before shriveling into sun-ripened prunes. The trip was nearing its end, and I looked forward to sleeping in my own bed and investigating my mail. Even restaurant food lacked its excitement as the days progressed, which was a definite sign that I had turned my thoughts toward home. There was one notable exception, however. July 11, 1977... Stayed at a real neat motel... and ate at its restaurant. Swam for an hour and half. After awhile, I started talking to a guy in the pool with me. After awhile we saw a drunk guy! It was funny. Then he asked if I wanted something cold to drink (an RC COLA). We talked awhile after and Mom made me come up finally. (a sad face) He was from Dallas, TX.