Why did I leave California? What was the rationale? Oh, yes. Family. Valid. I seem to recall some other business about history and seasons also. Not valid.
Just returned from a 1st-anniversary trip to California, prompted by my cousin's wedding near Sacramento. Family was in full attendance.
First let me state that I did not make contact with many, dear friends out there. That is largely due to the wedding and my rigorous tour-roster for Scott. He had never been to California. Golly, if any of you will still speak with me, I would love to see you next visit. OK, even if you don't. I'm coming back.
As far as I can recall, I've never flown on such a long flight with my parents. It tickled me. We all sat in a row facing forward with our sensible travel wear duds on. Lots of Southwest Airline snack-inspections and ingredients-reading. Dad went ahead and ate the Lorna Doones.
I mentioned that the hotel had a pool, and knowing that area to be hot, did any of us bring swim suits? Scott chuckled and said he may not have, but that once he purchased something called a 'dipster'. A disposable bathing suit available at some hotels. "Does it desintegrate after x hours of use?" I asked. I was told, no, that it was made of some plastic-poly combo. "Like a fedex-package?" No one answered me. I couldn't picture what it looked like.
We checked in to our nicely chilled rooms. Since we had a few hours to kill before the rehearsal dinner, I ventured out. I opened the door and nearly collided with the tallest, darkest man I'd ever seen. He was streaming wet without a towel, a lean, muscled black man with a medium-sized afro. He smiled and showed all his bright teeth. Fiddling with his room key right next door, he shifted the styrofoam cooler he was carrying, I stepped back. He was wearing only what looked like a cellophane pair of short-shorts. He stood and streamed and smiled and wished me a good day in a low voice and entered his room. Ah ha! A dipster! Scott and I got such a kick out of it. The thing is, he and his partner, a portund white woman with stringy brown hair seemed to have come with two children espressly to swim. In and out, all day. Our sandwich-baggy-shorted tall-drink-of-water walked around all day towelless. Smiling. They were noisy, too, all night. One shouted:
I said, he's peeing on the floor! The final straw occured the next morning, I strolled past Dipster in my wedding fineries. He smiled and as I passed growled:
That is a nice
dress. Mmm. Scott had our room switched instantly.
The wedding scene was unreal. I was previously unfamiliar with the area, but about an hour from Sacramento is the most beautiful area along the Delta. This wedding
site looked to me like a French villa. It went on and on. Scott and I explored all of it, inside and out. It was a perfect day. They were married on a front lawn in between the eucalyptus trees providing shade from the warm sun. I tried not to be sad about our opposite weather conditions last year.
After some days of relatives, Scott and I hopped in our rental convertable and headed to San Francisco to see Stuart & Kevin. It was so great to see them, and their new home! We took a good
hike nearby their house and then contemplated dinner plans. The conversation went as follows:
Stuart: What would you like to do for dinner?
Me: Oh, nothing fancy. I'm sorry I'm not more help-- what would you recommend?
Stuart: Hmmm.
Kevin: Just say it.
Stuart: What?
Kevin: Just say it!
Stuart: [Pause] What about Li Po?
Kevin: I knew it! I knew it. Every out of town guest that comes she insists we go
here. I don't get it.
And we did. Smack in the heart of china town resides a fantastic bar. Ah, no martinis here. Thank heavens. I was already feeling the guilt for the countless reservations I'd made for the rest of the week. We sat at an all-red table and benches with a red lightbulb overhead for light. Scott's friends came to join, recent NY-transplants, and I couldn't stop laughing. They were blinking, trying to adjust to the screwball "happiness" table for a long time. There is a hindu-looking shrine behind the bar next to the obscurely labelled volkda bottles.
I won't bore you with the travel log. But I will say that I was more spellbound than ever with the area. After SF, I couldn't wait to show Scott where I
lived. And where I
lived. We had the cutest, cleanest
digs-- the whole place was covered in jasmine. We took in foggy breakfasts by the Parkside's fireplace, hikes on Mt Tam, nights at the Sand Dollar bar, beach walks, great coffee, jaunts to Bolinas. Every day was sunny, every evening was cool, every morning was cool & foggy. Paradise.
The night before we left to head inland to wine country, I truly couldn't sleep. The natural beauty! Its so forgiving and, dare I say, nuturing. We stayed primarily in
Sonoma,
ate well, slept well, rode bikes to some great
wineries and drove further to
others. Our last day I felt obligated to show some of Napa and St. Helena. We decided we'd spoil ourselves and head
here to watch the sunset. It was perfect. Except for this gruesome 4-top seated next to us. Two guys in their cheezy shirtwear and two skinny, well-heeled and well-jewelled wives competing for best travel stories. But not in a best travel-funny story, or best-adventure travel story-- rather, more in a best-of-inconvenience sort. Why? Also amusing- no one asked the other any questions. It was a fierce I-had-it-worse-than-you match. Scott and I did manage to enjoy our tasty treats before getting our check and talked the whole way back about them. Happy to return to our modest inn.
It was not without discomfort to peel myself away. I was like the little kid not ready to go "down" yet. I will also admit to not being pleasant company on the long, connecting day of travel we had yesterday. Let's just say I started a little incident in a Mexican restaurant at the charming Pheonix airport.
Oh. Travel. Is it worth it? Of course it is. But to return, with heavy heart is not easy. I just put in the washing machine all our dirty sweaters and t-shirts. They all smelled like sunscreen and the outdoors. Must return soon, indeed.
