California REALITY - Day 3 - Ventura, Part Two - The City of Fortune Smiles Upon Me

An hour later, including several frustrating moments on the part of the team as we dealt with an unprepared project manager on the other end of the call, my future coworkers went back to their hives as Cindy and I prepared for lunch with Martha, with whom I would be working intimately on database conversions and software updates. Martha has been with Rubicon since day one and, quite frankly, it shows. Here is a woman that is a blend of Mimi from The Drew Carey Show and Jane Fonda as Judy in 9 to 5, with a touch of Joan Plowright (in just about any of her roles) thrown in for good measure. She is a numbers cruncher, and works on an Access Database system. It will largely be my job (preliminarily) to bring her into the 21st, if not 22nd, century. Martha has the weight of the world mapped out across her wrinkled brow; it is bound to be a stormy sea through which I will need to navigate. I’ll adjust my sails as we go.
We dined at a local sponsor of the theatre, My Florist, a hip, chrome and wood encrusted joint with high ceilings and indoor palms; standing at the back of the dining area was a 20-foot silver plated statue of Atlas, bearing a globe on his back; a fitting place for Martha, if ever there was. A large table of elderly ladies was finishing up what appeared to be their daily dose of tea and scones. There was a bit of a breeze in the air, and we all opted for a soup and sandwich combo. Nearby: a business lunch of several executives, one of whom was showcasing an enormous amount of cleavage. Cindy quipped in wonder how any of her male co-workers could focus on the meeting. I observed a few ladies enter who were seated next to us, one of whom I was surprised to see had even dared to appear in public; she looked like she had been stuffed with so much Botox and collagen, it was a wonder she wasn’t wearing African neck rings to hold up what was now her marshmallow of a head. Her sunken eyes (the only thing untouched by a cosmetologist) darted quickly around the room; maybe it was just nerve damage…I’m not sure, because her face was so “frozen,” but I think, I actually think, she was smiling. Thank heavens I had finished eating, otherwise I’m sure I’d have lost my appetite.
We dropped Martha back off at the theatre, and here was where the meat and potatoes really began: the tour of the town. Cindy went above and beyond the call of duty here; she had done this move herself several months back, but flew solo, and it was trial by fire. Here she was more than happy to hold my hand as we headed to the east side of town, driving down Main Street, past the shops, the restaurants, the galleries and novelty stores, parks, plazas and promenades. It was not long before we reached the “cusp” of downtown where, like any town, things “turn a bit.” Cindy actually lives on the cusp, but her condo is in a new development built to drive out the riff raff – and it’s an excellent start. She lives in minimalist fashion, which works for her, but the layout is spacious and inviting and warm. A pair of decks overlooking the mountains and her courtyard only adds to the ambiance.
She showed me the local shopping centers for basic sundries and such, and then we pulled into a lot near the North shores. Here there is a bike/jog path which she runs often now, and I see why. A few minutes down the path from the lot, the path suddenly opens up onto the beach, with cliffs to the right, jagged rocks bearing down to the beach, and then, to the left, an auspicious view of the entire City of Ventura – coastside. Surfers and bikers, families with strollers, joggers and walkers, all bustled about us as we touched upon the beach and found a suitable rock to house both of us as we chatted and had a smoke. While Cindy and I knew each other back east, I think it is going to be here, out west, where we will bond. There was a moment of silence between us as the waves crashed and the mammoth seagulls swooped across the tides. Two nomads, uprooted from their lives, contemplating change. One might have called it that “awkward silence.” I prefer to look it as…”contentment.”
We walked back the path to the lot, and just before we reached the car, a buff 30-something man with shaved head was peeling off his tank top to go for a jog in his short shorts. As he started his trek past us and as I turned to observe him, pushing my sunglasses down my nose to watch with intensity, I solemnly said to Cindy (without breaking my focus on him), “I feel like Little Orphan Annie when she walks into the Warbucks mansion.” She looked at me quizzically, and to further clarify what I meant, I sang out with gusto in my best Andrea McArdle voice: “I THINK I’M GONNA LIKE IT HERE!”