Goodbye California

I'm out of San Francisco for at least the next two years. It didn't really sink in until I was on the first span of the Bay Bridge heading East on Monday evening as a typically golden California sunset bathed the Bay Area in perfect light.

I'm leaving a great city, a great state and too many great people to name, but you know who you are. Not to get to maudlin or sentimental, but I'll miss this place and the times I had here.

Rosie's Cracker Barrel

If you read closely, I'll occassionally leave you with life-altering advice. Without dropping a more obvious prelude that I feel strongly about what I'm about to say, here's another point of emphasis: next time you're in Carmel go taste wine at Rosie's Cracker Barrel, which is located about 11 miles up Carmel Valley Road off of Highway 1 west of Carmel-by-the-Sea. 

You'll probably meet Kiki and her completely blind dog and have an awesome time tasting wines from off the beaten path while learning about supernatural plant fertizilier and the ins and outs (mostly) of the music industry in LA. 

The wine's were great too, and not that stuff you'd just casually bump into, but local gems from local winemakers, probably small production, thought I haven't done the research yet. I particularly enjoyed the Otter Cove Chardonnay and the Pinot Noir from Richard Oh which was amazing. At the end of the tasting, we committed financially and had our wine binge broken by a refreshing pilsner served in a mini pint glass. This I found so amusing, which may also have been the residual effects of my tasting on an empty stomach buzz, that I took a picture with the idea of recording what it would feel like to take down a regular pint if you were a 36 foot tall giant. 

Rosie's is currently being rebuilt, but the authenticty and the funk are still there in what has been the most low-key and intimate wine-tasting experience I've had in California. You should doubt my authority of course, but try Rosie's anyway just on the off chance I could be right.

Feeling It in Big Sur

Since I'm fairly obsessed with Clint Eastwood (see Gran Torino) and can't see any reason why everyone else wouldn't be, I thought I'd share this tidbit: Clint used to be the mayor of Carmel-by-the-Sea, California. This was in the '80s when Dirty Harry was pretty much the paradigm for cops across the country. As a result, nobody's stealing purses today in Carmel. 

Plus which it's pretty scenic with a goodly amount of diversions, like golf and whale-watching, so we left the wind and the rain in San Francisco on Friday night to find unexpectedly beautiful weather in Carmel on Saturday. 

We stayed at the Cypress Inn which is nice, particularly if you travel (as I do) with a pet dog. Cats aren't welcome, but dogs are pretty much insisted upon. In the lounges and bars of the hotel, about 25% of the crowd at any given time was canine and usually of a pretty aristocratic pedigree: great danes, standard poodles, English bulldogs.

The scene at the Cypress Inn is, like much of Carmel, pretty swinging for 50+ empty nesters who treat their dogs like human children, so be sure to check that out if I've just painted out a pastel of your particular fetish. (Don't forget to bring your dogs papers as the 'show quality' of your dog will certainly come up within the first 30 seconds of conversation with anybody and determine your own quality.)

Like I said the weather was beautiful on Saturday, so we headed down Route 1 south to Big Sur and had a pretty quintessential California kind of day. The surf was up and we were treated to soaring vistas with crashing waves all day long. We had artichokes and white wine for lunch and spent the afternoon hiking at Garrapata State Park, which I highly recommend for anyone planning a visit. 

The beach is spectacular particularly in what seemed like big surf. I wouldn't say I'm good at estimating wave height, but these were at least in the 15-20 foot range consistently, with the occasional monster being much larger and soaking the unwary and nearly sweeping our little dog out to a watery death. 

All along the beach, there's a 50 foot cliff separating the sand from the headlands above and several creeks make small waterfalls and pools as they tumble down towards the sea. Callow lilies were blooming along these streams and at the end of the day, with the sun lighting up the sea like a plain of molten gold we saw two gray whales making their way up the coast from Mexico.

Big Trees

Two weekends ago I did something I'd meant to do since that freshman-year religion class where we read the Celestine Prophecy and got all metaphysical on the spiritual potency of old growth forests. 

Yeah. So I found the next-to-nearest grove* of redwood trees to San Francisco, Armstrong Grove, in the Russian River Valley, and went there by myself to see about things, the Universe and interconnectedness, feeling part of something.

I took the East Ridge Trail and was generall satisifed with the solitude. It's not exactly tourist season in California, but I still had to jog on a few occasions to beat a group of people I heard behind me. 

Once off the East Ridge, I dropped back into the main valley, where the big trees are and found the highlight 'Colonel Armstrong' tree. It's tall and thick and old and impressive. Sure to satisfy your redwood jones.

*The closest is Muir Woods and if you think you're going to find solace and spirtual oneness there, you must be prepared to do so with the ass end of a European tourist peaking out at you from the spandex waistband of his soccer warmups.