Yesterday a friend of mine posted on Facebook that she'd had to be evacuated from Harbin Hot Springs because of one of California's summer fires. A big one.
Later, at dinner, Zadie asked if we could go to Harbin next weekend. Sure, I said... assuming the fire's out by then.
This morning the news was clear: Harbin was gone.
So even though you probably don't know the place, I'm going to stretch out and remember and grieve a little.
I first went to Harbin with an old friend when I was about 19 -- twenty years ago. The first thing I remember is that it took forever to get there! The road wound around back and forth up a mountain above Calistoga for nearly an hour, and Calistoga wasn't a short trip. Every time we'd round a new curve, I'd think it must be near, but no, just more dappled sunlight.
I was skeptical at first. I mean, I'm a bit of a hippie, but soaking in a hot springs in the woods with a bunch of naked people? And for goodness' sake, it was run by something called the Heart Consciousness Church. I wasn't at all sure I'd like it. But then... then you get there and the place smells like bay and lavender, and the gate is shaped like a dragon, and if you wake up in the morning by the rushing stream, there's likely to be a deer looking at you, and frankly, a hot springs is a lot like a very relaxing bath. I was won over. I soon went back without my old friend, and I went back many times alone.
Once I went during a busy summer event. The pools were crowded and boisterous. I felt a little crabby. A skinny little gay guy suggested we take off and get lattes in the cafe instead of hanging around the pools. While we were there, we cooked up a plan to pick the mulberries that grew over the big swimming pool, and we took them and made pancakes near where he was staying in the Meadow.
Another time, I went upstairs to Fern Kitchen above the pools to make tea before bed. One guy got out a guitar, and then another grabbed a small drum, and then they handed out shakers and improvised instruments, and we all made music in the kitchen until someone came up from the pools to ask us to hush (fair enough; the pools are a quiet area).
Little spontaneous treats like that happened a lot. I remember once sitting on the deck when someone said he was going to lead a tour of the gardens in ten minutes. Harbin had a large food garden, from which it stocked the little grocery store, and he showed us all around it, letting us have little samples of things, including fennel seeds, which I'd never tasted before.
On several occasions I went to the movie theater, a room with long steps and pillows, but no chairs. We would sprawl around and watch something like Gods and Monsters, sharing popcorn someone had made in the kitchen just before the movie started.
I went to the Thursday night dances many times, too, dancing, as they say, like no one was watching.
I also soaked a lot. I love the hot pool and the silent meditation pool. I have never liked to have my fingers wrinkly, though, so I used to hold my fingertips above the water. Several times, people asked what I was doing, whether it was some meditation or sun salutation or something. Nope. But I never minded chatting with people who'd come ask.
I went with Monkeygirl several times, too. Once we went in about March, and it was really cold. We were camping, and at about four in the morning, after putting all our clothes and hats on, tossing and turning, I turned to her and we both sang, "I got my head shaved..." It was the first line of a popular song that was apparently running through both our heads. We realized we weren't going to sleep in that cold, so we walked the mile-ish walk back to the pools to sit in the warm water until dawn.
She and I used to love to eat there. I remember once we made ourselves about two heads of broccoli with garlic and butter. Other times we'd pack fruit, carrots, tomatoes, hummus and bread and laze around on the decks snacking in the sunshine.
After my divorce, I went there a lot, trying to figure out who I was when it was just me -- no one to talk to, no one to camp with. I wrote a lot of poetry, some of it godawful.
I went in all seasons. I love summer, so sunning on the deck and then splashing in the pool was probably my favorite. I got a hell of a sunburn there once. But I liked it when it was raining, too. The pools weren't so crowded, and my body was still warm even as the rain hit my face and hair. Once I remember just having had enough of the rain, so I spent the afternoon in the library, reading and dozing on the couch.
After I met Sweetie, I was up there once during the summer. I had gone to the changing room to brush my teeth and went outside afterwards and sat for a while on the edge of a planter. I saw a shooting star. I used to always wish on stars, but somehow I had a feeling that I didn't need to anymore. I knew that Sweetie and I had a future together made of reality instead of romanticism, and I just enjoyed getting to see the star without attaching any meaning to it other than that. I had what I'd wished for.
There was lots to Harbin besides the pools -- lovely decks on which to sun, a poolside cafe that served the most amazing sandwiches (fig and triple-cream brie with honey -- oh), a labyrinth to walk, old Victorian buildings covered with heirloom roses (Cecile Bruners -- they smell amazing), a restaurant, and many trails around the mountain. I had heard early on that there was a "tea house," but on several walks I never could find it. Once I went so far I found the Harbin auto shop!
I took Zadie several times. Kids are only allowed in the swimming pool and the heart-shaped warm pool. She loved it there from the beginning and often asked to return. She liked to walk the labyrinth, or up the short trail to the waterfall and the statue of Quan Yin. Once I told her about the teahouse, she was determined that we go. We went on one meandering walk and didn't find it, but ended up on the other side of the pool area we'd left from. She insisted we try again. This time we asked for directions, and we finally found it -- a low building on the edge of the ridge overlooking the valley. We lay inside for a long time, and she wanted to write in the journal there, and then we hiked back down. We went maybe twice more, sometimes running into other groups of people who were pretty charmed by her. She was calmer there than she was most anywhere else.
The last time we went I was pregnant with Lochlan. It felt good to be warm and weightless. I felt beautiful. We played in the heart pool all day. I was sure the next time I came back, I'd have two children with me.
So the place is burned down. It was more than some buildings, of course: the people all got out safely, and that's important. I hope the deer and some of the other animals got away, but I'm sure there were casualties. And they will rebuild, I'm sure of it. But in the meantime the bay trees are gone, the meadow is gone, the garden, the kitchen, the theater, the decks, Quan Yin, the wind chimes, the tea house, the overhead lattice and the grapes that grew on it, the bridge, the cafe, the roses... all of it is gone. And I'm going to miss it a lot.
