Bypassed Clint’s Carmel for Steinbeck’s Monterey. Chagrined at the unappetizing bear claws inside the Otter Inn’s highly-touted, complimentary gift baskets.
About 9pm, strolled from arse end of Cannery Row to some harbourside restaurant with an open sign we could see flashing from the public toilets on the other side of the wharf. Shoveled Oysters Rockefeller and crab-stuffed prawns into our mouths, both items doused in decadent Hollandaise, while sea lions commenced their noisy nocturnal patrol of the pier, a good thirty of them shocking us with their outstanding bleats echoing across the bay.
Monterey Aquarium next day onlookers pressed up against the glass for the 10.30am otter feed. “You otter be there,” said a fanatic from Otterville, U.S.A. She was a strange, frightful lady reciting her town motto/mantra to a young boy who appeared bemused, annoyed and a little frightened. The otters themselves clowned around with a bucket of clams. Terribly cute.
Then we saw a bunch of other stuff. You name it, we probably saw it, but no Manatees.
The penguins waddled around to the sexy sounds of Paul Simon (a better musical fate the singer/songwriter could not have imagined). His tunes are a good match for these uncoordinated creatures who ready themselves for a dive so ineptly it’s like they’re always doing it for their first time. Deep down I don't believe the penguins appreciate the staff playing Paul Simon 24-7. Surely this is in breach of the 'They Call me Al' Animal Rights Act of 1987, or whenever that torturous number was written.