On July 18, 2011, I stumbled out of the Mineta San Jose International Airport and found that, for the first time in several months, I could breathe in and out without being baked alive. The cab driver on his way to my new apartment kept the windows rolled down and I boggled at the notion that at 7 pm, the air was actually beginning to cool.
Every now and then, when I’m in danger of forgetting the relief of living in a reasonable climate, friends come along to remind me.
This is Cowell Ranch Beach near Half Mooon Bay:
The sky was cloudless, the sand was warm, and the waves were hypnotic.
Five minutes later, the mist rolled in. The path we walked back on could’ve been lifted off the LotR set.
(There may have been a filter.)
A week later I was at Monterey/Carmel — specifically at Point Lobos, where you can smell the seals before you see them.
(Filters: they’re addictive.)
We wandered around Carmel, which is a fancy-schmancy little town inches away from the ocean. My vague jealousy at the lifestyles of the well-heeled and artfully tousled was countered somewhat by the realization that they were one flatulent cow away from a global-warming induced, catastrophic sea-level rise.
Look, I never claimed to be a good person.
I wish I could’ve taken pictures of some of the pictures we found in a gallery, but this pretty much epitomizes Carmel and half of California:
It’s also possible I ate my weight in food that weekend. Santa Cruz has a fantastic breakfast/brunch spot called The Buttery that’s worth the wait and overcrowding because, by god. Possibly the best mocha I’ve had in my life.
That right there is eggs Benedict with a solid pound of avocado and home fries, flanked by The Mocha.
Thank you, California.