Saved Your Life, Part Two -- Monterey, CA

I'm starting this post from a bakery in Carmel-by-the-Sea. I sit wedged in a corner, scribbling in my little turquoise notebook as I wait for Boy to order our latte (instead of ordering two smalls, we order one medium to share). There's a little boy, maybe six years old, with dark hair and big blue eyes who sits at the table across from mine. He turns around in his chair to gawk at me, crusts of sandwich poking out the side of his mouth in a Joker-esque grin. I ignore him politely. Then decide it would be more appropriate to stare right back at the little boy with dark hair and big eyes (his mother isn't looking). He immediately averts his gaze to the window, pretending to be entirely absorbed in the piles of pastries taunting the passersby. He keeps up this charade for an impressive three seconds, then looks back, curious blue eyes unblinking, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk and crusts magically disappeared.

What do I remember about yesterday? 

I remember breaking our rule about picnics and eating our final bananas and nectarines before we crossed the border to California.

"We're not allowed to bring produce across the state line," Boy informed me of a law I've been informed of time and time again. And impressively manage to forget time and time again.

Shit. Why did I buy SO MANY BANANAS? 

We stopped to get gas at Boomtown, a not-so-booming town right outside of Reno. After filling up, we pulled into the shade, sat on a curb, and ate our stash of fruit whilst glumly staring at Cummerbund's backside.

"It was an emergency," I justified our pitiful view (no offense, Cummerbund) between mouthfuls of nectarine. "It's better than having our food taken away at the border."

The first portion of our journey through California was full of hills and trees and serpentine roads that made me grip the door in terror and press my left foot against the floor. As if somehow the act of pressing my foot against the floor could save us from hurtling over the side of the mountain.

I. Hate. Cars. And cliffs. And cars on cliffs. 

A stress headache started to knock on my forehead and at the base of my skull.

Pound. 

Pound. 

POUND. 

I breathed a sigh of relief when the road leveled and straightened. And then panicked again when the two lane road transformed into six. A behemoth white truck catapulted itself across two lanes of traffic, directly into the path of our little Geo.

"ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!?" I screamed. Not very politely.

Boy honked his horn at the recklessly careening truck, but I saw the driver acknowledge us, and then continue to shove himself into our lane.

I threw my hands into the air, cursed some more, and was in all ways incredibly helpful.

Boy kept his calm (somebody's gotta do it) and lurched Cummerbund into the carpool lane, right onto a pile of wood shards, but (luckily) not into another vehicle.

"My new tires..." Boy moaned.

I seethed in my seat.

"That asshole is going to kill someone."

Boy was silent. Still keeping the calm.

"Hey," I smiled at Boy, "you saved my life."

Boy laughed.

To me, it's utterly astonishing the amount of danger Californian drivers flagrantly put themselves (and others) in simply to save themselves three seconds of drive time. There was no reason whatsoever for the white truck to commandeer our lane. He wasn't missing an exit. He wasn't even trying to get into the carpool lane. He simply didn't want to languish behind the slightly slower car two lanes over.

Boy's phone beeped, alerting us of an accident on our route.

Wonder why...

I cleverly switched routes to avoid the accident, and Boy and I ended up in the middle of nowhere (we had to cross not one, but two drawbridges -- sure sign of being in the middle of nowhere), and were delayed by not one... not two... but three accidents.

We rolled down the windows all the way. I complained about getting sunburnt inside the car and Boy fretted about his wine overheating.

By the time we arrived at Mori's, Boy and I were dripping sweat, smelled like every car in California had exhausted all over us, and were very... very...very tired.

Mori's wife, a Persian woman named Elly, met us at the door.

"Welcome! Come in," she led us into a gorgeous living room, with colorful rugs adorning the floor and lusciously plump couches to melt into. "I'm so sorry," she said as she brought us a plate full of cheese and crackers, "I have an exam for English tonight. At six. But Mori will be here soon."

Boy has known Mori for six years, nine months of which he's spent working in Mo and Mori's Persian rug shop in Grand Junction. I've frequently heard him talk about these brothers, mourning their departure, and if I had a nickel for every time we strolled down Grand Junction's Main Street and he said, "This used to be Mo and Mori's rug shop..." I could travel the world for the rest of my life.

So it was a happy moment for Boy when Mori walked through the door.

"I'm sorry I'm late, buddy," Mori greeted Boy. "There was an accident."

Of course there was...

Elly cooked Persian meatballs, tsatsiki and rice for dinner. And it was divine. We chatted about travel, food and religion. After dinner, we returned to the couches, continuing to chat. Boy left to use the bathroom and didn't come back. As the amount of time he spends in the bathroom is legendary, I didn't question his absence. But when he didn't return within half an hour, I went to check on him.

There was Boy, sprawled out, passed out on the bed.

Mori and Elly made us breakfast the next day. Coffee, cucumber, feta cheese, fried egg and fruit.

My coffee was served in a white mug with flowers and delicate font that read, "If mothers were flowers, I'd pick you."

We met Mori at his rug shop on Lighthouse Avenue in Monterey.

Mori has some crazy beautiful rugs.

Boy's friend gave us some advice on what to do in Monterey, and then we parted ways, telling him we'd be back for lunch.

Everything in Monterey seems to harken back to canning. And sardines. And the canning of sardines.  

Never before have I seen a Canadian goose on the beach. 

Boy is happiest in a) the rain or b) the ocean. It's going to be a good summer for Boy. 

We joined Mori for lunch and then rumbled off in Cummerbund to visit Carmel-by-the-Sea.

Which is a magical little town, full of quaint shops and white sand beaches.

Boy found a buddy

We returned to Mori's at around six thirty, drank some shots of tequila (Monterey is cold. And tequila fixes this) and then (at Boy's insistence) headed out to watch the sunset.

"There's not going to be a sunset," I grumbled as we climbed into Cummerbund. "There are far too many clouds. All we're going to see is a giant stack of clouds."

"You don't know that," Boy remained consistent to his perpetually positive outlook.

But I did know that.

All we saw was a stack of clouds, a mountain of rocks, and a colony of seagulls.

Elly prepared an eggplant dinner for us. And it was incredible. There was profound rejoicing of my tastebuds. I am convinced that all the food Elly prepares is incredible, and I am mentally preparing for the devastation I will feel when I leave Mori's and Elly's on Sunday. Knowing that Elly will still be in Monterey, cooking out-of-this-world dinners and that I will not be eating them.