A Fortuitous Social Event at a Conference in “Hidden Valley”

The meeting was at a resort in the Ojai Valley, 20 miles and two mountain ranges east of Santa Barbara, and a similar distance north, on a 2-lane highway, of the count seat, Ventura.

The conference center justly advertised itself thus:

The Inn accommodates groups of ten to four hundred and fifty. Sun splashed courtyards, tranquil fountains, warm fireplaces and rich wood accentuate the Inn’s two ballrooms, providing the perfect setting for groups to come together and exchange ideas or socialize.  A few of the many venue enhancements at the Ojai Valley Inn & Spa include an expansive new Conference Center with two beautiful ballrooms; and many meeting and breakout rooms. Enjoy the beautiful outdoor paseos – warmed by the natural light of gas lamps and fireplaces – and invite your meeting attendees to gather and socialize.

It was rather an important conference: “The Healthcare Safety Net: Effective Collaboration between Public and Private Healthcare Providers.” I typically detest such gatherings where, among other more professional speakers, grandstanding state and national politicos and their government lackeys show us what regulatory mayhem they are planning for those of us who do real work.

The brief drive south on highway 101 from Silicon Valley to Gilroy, the “Garlic Capital of the World,” showed me the wisdom of my plan to start early. Even at 5AM, the eight-lane freeway was beginning to clog with trucks entering from the adjacent industrial parks and produce factories. But, as a pleasant counter-balance, the usual southerly flow of air from Gilroy gave my nose and palate a taste of the onions and garlic growing there.

I was suddenly freed from the growing torrent of machines as I turned left at Gilroy and east toward Pacheco Pass, to get me over the Diablo Range and into the great Central Valley.

This brief trip over a winding, four-lane highway through hills and farmland was a delight to my eye in mid-spring. I drank in the welcome sight of golden poppies along the roadside and bright yellow wild mustard in swatches over the newly-greened mountains and their foothills surrounding the farm land.  I was no longer in the Bay Area, or Bayarrhea, as my pal Fred calls it.

The passing farms presented orderly rows of dark green vegetables, and fields of newly emerging fodder for later use by feedlots and ranches throughout the coastal valleys. Where the earth was tilled but still unsown, it was dark and moist, smelling rank and fertile.  Strawberry fields were prepared with plastic layers of protective cover, reflecting the early morning sun at an acute angle into my eyes.

As I came over the crest of the pass I was not disappointed to feel, as always on this drive, a sense of freedom, soaring over the low mountain range along with the ever-hovering hawks and kites and turkey buzzards, down into the great valley.

—

The medium-size ballroom cum meeting room was prepared for around 150 people, I reckoned with a quick glance at the rows of folding chairs facing the podium in a gentle curve. I arrived early, as usual, to secure my favorite seat at such gatherings: in the second row from the front, at the very right facing the podium, on the aisle along the wall. This position gained me several advantages: I could leave quickly and unobtrusively if the proceedings began to bore me; I could watch the speaker’s full body to monitor his or her involuntary body language while listening to the prepared remarks; and, if I wanted to get a word with an interesting speaker at the end of the presentation, I was in a position to get to the podium quickly.

As I waited for the room to fill I defocused a bit and allowed my attention to wander to my surroundings. I usually don’t care about the furnishings and decorations of a meeting room, as long as they don’t insult my eyes with garish colors, ungraceful shapes, or highly reflective elements that are sometimes part of the current cuteness that parades as fashion.  I was grateful to see that the room was not too bright. Several skylights allowed indirect sunlight to suffuse the room fully, supplemented by soft lighting ringing the room well above eye level. As a nod to fashion, there were two largely non-functional but relatively unobtrusive chandeliers. The walls were a sort of beige, vaguely tinted in a color I didn’t feel the need to categorize. On three of the room’s walls were several large, rather well-done oil paintings of local nature, mountain and ranch scenes, with discreet price tags affixed. They hung with sufficient space around them to be able to regard them individually, and I did, thinking I might look more closely later for a possible purchase.

I became aware of shuffling feet and papers, and conversations were elevating the noise level, so I abandoned this attention to the room’s detail and directed it toward the assembling crowd. I had already looked at the list of registered attendees, and I recognized the names of a few friendly colleagues from California. Some of the other names were familiar by reputation, and I thought it might be interesting, perhaps useful, to meet a few of these people at the organized social events.

As I slowly gazed around from my vantage point I suddenly felt the weight of age on my shoulders. Here were people in my cohort, plus or minus a few years, all looking gray and tired. A well of fellow-feeling arose in my chest as I recognized in them, correctly or not, the difficult labors these professional hospital and medical managers undertake in service to their respective communities. The feeling passed, as I rationalized that everyone had to do something, and growing older was inevitable.

At the appointed time of the address, the crowd parted and started seating themselves, allowing a purposeful person to stride vigorously and gracefully down the center aisle toward the podium. I assumed this well-dressed woman was to introduce the speaker, the Congressman from Indiana, Bert Paulson, Chairman of the House Subcommittee on Health.

As she passed by me to gain access to the stage, the slight breeze created by her passage wafted a delicate, unidentifiable scent over me. I suddenly was more alert to my surroundings, especially her. She was dressed as an easterner, not casually as most of the people in the audience were.

I was grateful she was wearing a skirt which seemed part of a suit, in a light red-rose-color, not pink. She had a small multicolored scarf at her throat, fastened with an ivory clasp which matched the tone of her skin seen above it.

I was immediately focused, however, on her skirt, especially just at her barely exposed knee; it seemed of a finely woven fabric, perhaps linen or silk—the skirt, not the nicely rounded knee. After perusing her well-shaped legs for a few moments, I took in the rest of her. She looked quite business-like but relaxed, with a friendly look around her eyes and mouth. She stood erectly without appearing stiff, and her small movements were generally graceful.

She made a motion at the podium that she was to begin speaking, and the crowd went mostly silent. She adjusted the position of the microphone, lightly tapped it to test the sound level with a polished but uncolored fingernail, and then raised her head to smile at the audience. Her teeth were small and even, both upper and lower teeth showing.

“Good morning ladies and gentlemen. I am Phyllis Durbin, chief legislative counsel to the House Subcommittee on Health, of which Congressman Paulson is Chairman. He was unexpectedly called away to urgent business elsewhere and I hope you will remain seated as I attempt to fulfill his duties here today.”

The audience murmured a bit as it digested this information. I felt quite all right with this news because I already knew, as most people present did, what the Congressman’s views were, and I looked forward to drinking in the sight and sound of this lovely woman, especially from my vantage point.

Her shoes were of medium size, seemingly made of fine leather, colored in a reddish brown, and with one-inch heels. As she began speaking, I noted she occasionally rose on the balls of her feet when emphasizing a point, the resultant tension outlining the fine muscles of her calves against her tight, sheer stockings.

Her general profile was classic, as far as the covering clothing could reveal to me. I could easily imagine her posed as a Greek nymph for a renaissance artist or sculptor.

Her skin’s ivory tone glowed in a way that seemed inherent, not applied. Her eyes and hair were dark, and I sensed a Mediterranean heritage. I had to admit to myself she looked extremely tasty. The thought created such a reaction in me that I decided to focus on the content of her speech so I wouldn’t embarrass myself if I were to stand up.

I went up to her after her speech to register my disagreement with her and the Chairman’s assumption about the willingness and ability of private sector doctors to integrate indigent patients into their private practices.

We agreed to meet for dinner to discuss it further.