Still Waiting -- Highway 1, California

I'm starting this post from Java Hut in Crescent City. The one room of this primarily drive-thru establishment is tiny, and the fact that there are either annoyingly small or annoyingly absent tables makes me think that they discourage coffee squatters. 

The abysmal pop music serves the same purpose as the price differences in Italy. In Italy, if you drink coffee at the bar, it's significantly cheaper than if you drink coffee in a chair. This is how Italians discourage lingering. At Java Hut, they discourage lingering via playing songs like, "Please Don't Stop the Music." 

The sign clearly stating, "NO PUBLIC RESTROOMS" is also not reassuring. On my behalf, Boy asked the barista what one should do in our situation. As in, we're on a road trip and in desperate need of a loo. The sympathetic barista gave Boy a key, and then pointed me across the large parking lot, through a red arch and told me to just explore the building in the back. And there should be a restroom. They didn't have the key for the women's, but the men's should work just fine. 

Passing through the arch, I read the foreboding sign, "NO TRESPASSING, TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED". I fumbled with the key to the men's room in my pocket, hoping that it would be a decent enough excuse for the trespassing police. 

Our last couple of days in Monterey were chocked full of exquisite Persian food, gut laughs, tequila, wine, nary a sunset, and the sit down kind of coffee. Mori mashed up a bowl of guacamole one night as we cozied up in the living room to watch a movie.

"It's Persian guacamole." 

"What makes it Persian?" 

"You'll see." 

"Wow... holy cow, this is really good." 

"I know. It's Persian." 

"But what ingredients make it Persian?" 

"It has basil." 

Mori's brother, Mo, drove from Fresno to spend the evening with us on Saturday. Mori barbecued corn on the back porch, making sure to inform us that, "This is a Persian grill... but the corn... the corn is from here." 

"What makes the grill Persian? Is there basil?" I teased. 

Mori and Boy laughed. But a few seconds later, the fire turned an inexplicable greenish color. And I wondered if there really was Persian basil hiding in the coals. 

During our dinner of crunchy rice and kebobs marinated in yogurt, we learned that Game of Thrones is actually the story of Persia, that there's evidence of Persians using wine as medicine 5000 years ago and that pretty much half of Asia used to be Persia. We also learned to never refer to the... umm... Persian Sea as the Arabian Sea in front of a Persian. 

Mornings at Mori and Elly's are beautiful. The birds outside start chirping, the parakeets inside start singing --

"It's NOT singing," Elly protested.

"You're right... it sounds more like they're yelling," I agreed.

-- the parakeets inside start yelling, and then Boy and I wander out onto the back porch to see what kind of wildlife will join us.

Since Mori didn't have to open his rug shop on Sunday, he and Elly joined us for tea at the hippie hating cafe that I love so much.

Upon Mori's recommendation, Boy and I finished our coffee and then headed out to Mission San Carlos Borromeo de Carmelo. Although I've visited countless churches in Europe and Mexico, it's a rare pleasure to be able to visit a monument like this in the US.

Boy and I bid Mori and Elly a sad farewell the next morning, and hit the road for Highway 1.

There are fresh produce shops all along the highway between Monterey and San Francisco 

Whenever we chanced upon a particularly irresistible view, Boy would slam on the brakes and veer Cummerbund to the left, jostling to a stop on a gravel turn-off. I'd bundle up in my layers of sweaters and scarves and dip my head under my camera strap. 

The majesty of these ocean cliffs confounded me.

I haven't been this in awe since the Cliffs of Moher... 

June seems like the perfect month for the journey. Not too hot, slightly too cold, flowers carpeting the landscape, spun as thick and as beautiful as Mori's Persian rugs.

Boy likes everything slightly too cold. He was meant to live in Russia. With his yak. Sergei.  

This is when I feel bitter about my knee... 

We stopped for coffee in Pescadero, and were delighted by the quirky cafe we discovered.

As the day wore on, a thick mist began to creep along. It enveloped the ocean cliffs, softening sharp edges and transforming landscape into dreamscape.

 The mist thickened into fog as we neared San Francisco.

I held my breath through the city, cringing every time Boy shifted gears. Gear 1 doggedly refused to shift without Boy coaxing it for several seconds. In a way, I admire its obstinance. Gear 1 does what it wants. As does Gear 2. Gear 3 and 4 are much more amenable, but Gear 5 and Reverse more than compensate for 3 and 4 with how indefatigably they resist Boy's requests to shift.

Boy has boundless faith in Cummerbund.

But I worry.

I was glad when we found ourselves back in the nature, and I was very glad whenever we found ourselves behind a gigantic Wildcat or Winnebago. Under normal circumstances, being stuck behind a slow-moving vehicle on a narrow road is maddening, but on this kind of serpentine road, I was thankful.

Wildcats and Winnebagos force Boy to slow down. Not that Boy drives unsafely -- just that I prefer to travel at the pace of an inchworm when we wend through roads that wind like the Highway 1.

At around six, we found our campsite near Bodega Bay, pitched Mrs. Peterson, and then searched for our picnic view.

"Think I'll get a sunset?" Boy asked playfully.

"I have my doubts."

"You do? How many?"

"More than one."

We held each other, ate our cheese and listened to the waves crashing on the cliff below us, waiting for another sunset that decided not to show.

We slept fitfully, the foghorn sounding every ten seconds and small children singing like Elly's parakeets, waking us up at regular intervals.

I curled up into as small a ball as my sleeping bag would allow, hoping that my body would squash the guilt I felt about choosing this site. Boy made this trip several times before, and wild camped every night of his journey. He'd had a perfectly wonderful time and was eager to wild camp again.

But I googled it. And discovered that wild camping is quite illegal in California. And read all the stories of the campers who were asked to leave their sites and saddled with large fines.

So I said no.

"I won't be able to sleep," I told Boy. "I'll spend the whole night worrying that we'll be woken up by law enforcement. I won't feel safe."

So we spent 35 dollars (campsites in California are exorbitant) to pitch Mrs. Peterson in a loud, ugly site with no view of the ocean. Just the Wildcat at the neighboring site. Hardly any sound of the waves. Just the yapping of a dog across the road and the foghorn in the distance.

And neither of us slept.