Off the California coast, sits a small town split by the Pacific Coast Highway and in this town actually stood a salmon colored Victorian home where a not so young couple first learned how to trust. This was my second marriage. I was in my forties with a divorce under my belt, a job I hated, and then this woman comes into my life making games of my fears. She came from a world I had never known, one that wasn't so cruel and dangerous. We married and travelled our little corner of the world together just before the 2008 recession hit, causing a career I thought I had built for myself to crumble just as a dream I had always denied became my only option. And I think the only thing that held us together, that held me together during that difficult time was trust. Trust isn't something you see too much of anymore. It's been replaced by confirmation, notarization, and security codes. But, without trust, I would never have even met Vicky, she and I would never have been wed, and we would never have made it to Cambria. Worse still, without trust we never would have lived in that big, pink, Victorian home on the California coast, travelled back to the 1960s, sailed a living room east of the Pacific, made friends with a golden retriever, or spoke with a cow. It was from out of all of this but also for all of this that I recorded my third autobiographical monologue: Cambria. All because two people fell in love.
