A few miles north of Santa Cruz, Dan and I stopped at a beach which requires a bit of effort to reach. We walked down a long path and over some railroad tracks, down a steep and treacherous path of loose dirt and gravel, and down onto the golden sand. It felt cool and damp underfoot, not unlike an Atlantic beach after an afternoon summer shower. In typical Northern California style, the beach was absolutely gorgeous but also absolutely freezing. Despite the fact that it was a balmy 88 degrees over the mountains in the valley from which we had come, we found ourselves somewhere in the mid 50s and practically shivering from the windy chill of ocean breezes blowing onshore. On the bright side, this particular beach featured a spectacular natural bridge feature that presumably began as a solid wall of sandy rock, which eventually gave into the endless pounding of countless unforgiving ocean waves. It now provided an interesting and unusual portal to the ocean on the other side.

Following our walk back up the treacherous path, we returned to the car and sped south into the somewhat bohemian town of Santa Cruz. We were starving and began searching for dinner. Both of us had Mexican on our minds, so after a long and arduous search, we found ourselves seated in a bustling Taqueria, gigantic burritos and plates full of nachos in front of us. I sipped on Horchata and scarfed down Carne Asada goodness as the sound of Spanish-speaking soccer announcers filled the room from televisions mounted to the walls. Only the employees of the establishment seemed to be paying any attention to it. Our stomachs began to get full as I watched the shadows from the parking meters on the sidewalk outside grow longer and longer until they disappeared completely. Satisfied, we hauled ourselves back into the car and headed north to Sunnyvale in the twilight.

Another full weekend behind me, I thought about the week ahead. But before I knew it, another 7 days had whizzed by my eyes and I was gazing backward at another weekend, which had been largely spent wandering around San Francisco with friends, since I unfortunately had nobody with whom to celebrate Passover.

On Wednesday of this past week I left work and headed to Stanford to attend a Passover Seder with a delightfully unorthodox twist. The Seder was called Coming Out…of Egypt. Based on traditional seder customs, it was attended primarily by LGBT jews and allies and featured a progressive Haggadah which examined the story of Passover in a Queer context. I thoroughly enjoyed the opportunity to celebrate Passover in a setting of my peers, which is something I haven’t really done before. The food wasn’t spectacular but the maztah balls were satisfying and I had to remind myself that I should be thankful, considering that I was yet again being treated to free dinner by Stanford. Such generous people! Wine class followed and, for the third Wednesday in a row, I sat and got practically drunk with a bunch of college kids and a wine shop owner while learning about the delicious viniferous beverage known as wine.

When Saturday rolled in, I woke up early and headed out to get an oil change for the Mazda. I have been running around so much that she was almost 1500 miles overdue for one. Shame on me. I found a place down the street that could do it right away, so I gave them the key and let them go about their business while I jogged back to my house. At that moment, I failed to recognize two things…one being just how far my house was from that gas station, and two being just how horribly out of shape I am. I must have jogged about a half mile or so before the only thought in my brain was of how much I hate running. I decided to walk for a little while to cool down. It was getting sunny and warm and I had begun to sweat. Jog a little further you wimp, I thought, so I began to trot a little faster down the sidewalk, stepping carefully around the puddles caused by poorly aimed garden sprinklers. I must have made it another quarter mile before I realized that I was still not even halfway from home, that I was tired and hot, and that my oil change would certainly be done if I just decided to turn around where I was and jog back. So I did. I paid the 20 bucks and cruised away with a pan full of fresh grease. Hooray for driving instead of walking.

I got some breakfast and a shower when I returned home, and soon Dan arrived. I packed a couple bags and off we went. To where, you ask? Why, into the great beyond of course! Actually, we had decided that a weekend away from the usual would be nice, so we planned a little 2 day trip down the coast. I had heard wonderful things about Highway 1 near Big Sur and Monterey, so we picked the skinniest roads on my California road atlas to get there, and went. We took the 101 for a hundred miles or so, exited and headed west across a wide open landscape of tiny green plants sprouting up in long straight rows on either side of the road.

On his iPod, Dan was playing us an episode of This American Life, an NPR radio show featuring various first-person stories and short fiction pieces. This particular episode centered on the intriguing life of one Gerald Springer, better known as Jerry Springer and for the smutty talk show which bears his name. As it turns out, the guy was once a successful and charismatic politician with a law degree from Northwestern, who served for several years on the Cincinnati city council and even for a year as mayor of the town. He failed to win the democratic party’s nomination for governor of Ohio in 1982, which led him out of politics and into journalism. By the mid 1980s he had earned himself a reputation as Cincinnati’s number one news anchor, where he stayed until 1991, when he headed off to what many might call the demise of his credibility and standing in society. You basically know the rest. For better or for worse, the guy has one heck of a colorful and surprising past.

As the show drew to an end, we began gaining elevation and eventually crossed into the Fort Hunter Liggett Military Reserve, a big grey blotch on the map through which Google had instructed us to drive. Touted on its website as the Army Reserve’s premier training center for the western United States, I wasn’t even sure if we were going to be allowed in (in this post-9/11 world, as they say). I was even more uncertain as we drove up to the entrance gate and saw an armed guy checking identification from the cars in front of us. The weapon was no M-16, but hey, a pistol can still fire bullets. When we finally made it up to the guy, I sheepishly told the guard that Google had directed us here and asked if we could pass through. He was friendly but firm and asked to see our driver’s licenses as well as proof of insurance and registration. Having showed him all our documents, he asked us where we were headed. This was just like trying to get into Canada, I thought, only without the funny accent and the Niagara Falls!

Eventually he let us go by and we proceeded into the restricted area. Within a mile, I could no longer see the gate we’d passed through and, aside from the occasional boot camp course or lone tank hanging around, I could barely even tell we were traveling through a military facility. We passed by miles of lonesome landscape, with many fields and forests and hills and mountains visible outside the windows around every turn. Before long, the road began to follow the increasing lumpiness of the terrain and I noticed a bit of a smile forming on my face. Dan started playing some show tunes on his iPod as I piloted the Mazda up the narrow road which was becoming increasingly steep and windy. At one point, we reached a gorgeous vista point and we both got out to get some air. I realized as I stood there that we’d probably seen 3 cars in the last half hour of driving. This was some seriously deserted territory!

It wasn’t long before the steep incline we were driving up turned into a decline we were rolling down, and I began downshifting to keep the brakes from overheating on the long downhill journey we were about to make. There is something I have come to find terribly inviting about maneuvering the Mazda up these curvy mountain roads, most of which are completely sans guardrail. For me, it has something to do with the opportunity to get away from all the traffic lights and stop signs, but it also has something to do with the feeling of excitement that comes from exploring completely new territory, as well as the great sense of wonder associated with having no idea what new and amazing sight will be waiting around the next sharp curve. And believe me, some of them really are sharp!

Well, this road was absolutely no exception. We began to catch small glimpses of the horizon when the trees were not so dense along the road, and it was obvious what the faint blue sight in the distance was. I don’t know why, when driving over these mountains, I always forget how much fun this part is. Eventually the road came completely out of the trees and began to hug the face of the bare mountainside, all aglow with shades of gold, orange, and lavender colored wildflowers.

I turned right and we headed north in the direction of Big Sur and Monterey. We had decided to come down here on Saturday because the next day this whole road would be shut down for the Big Sur International Marathon. 4500 entrants, up at 3am, to run in what must be among the best 26.2 miles of highway to jog on anywhere. Awesome.

We were losing light when we arrived in Carmel, a rather sleepy oceanfront town just south of Monterey. We had dinner reservations for 8:30 but that wasn’t for almost an hour and the sun was just about to set. So down we drove to the shoreline and onto the beach we went, cameras and the beloved dino bag filled with towels in tow.

Sunday morning I awoke without an alarm for the first time in seven days, and lay entangled with Dan for an hour or so before we decided to make something of the day. Because of his commitments back at Stanford, we only had a few hours before we would have to head back home. After a shower, we drove down to the touristy area of Monterey known as Cannery Row. I sadly do not see what all the fuss is about. While I was not overtly bothered by the environment I found myself in, I was reminded a little of the tackiness of Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco or of the many boardwalks found in east-coast beach towns: many beachfront restaurants with probably much more hype and advertising than culinary value or good service, and 1001 t-shirt shops. Yippee. Dan had actually warned me that it really wasn’t all that wonderful, and I have to say that he was right. We had a decent lunch and then headed for less manmade terrain.

Point Lobos was described to me by my manager at work as one of the “crown jewels” of the California State Park System. I haven’t seen enough of them to really make my own judgments yet, but I was pleasantly surprised with my experience here. We entered, paid our nine dollars, and drove down a long unmarked road. Eventually we came out in a parking area with gorgeous views of the ocean on three sides. That lot was full so we drove further south to another area with a space or two free, and got out of the car. I tossed my camera bag over my shoulder just in case I needed to swap lenses, and followed Dan down onto the rocky seashore. The next hour or so was spent meandering along the trails, which are marked clearly so nobody goes traipsing into any of the myriad poison oak plants which grow there. I’ve never had the pleasure of experiencing poison oak before, but if it is anything like poison ivy, well…let’s just say I stayed on the trail. I snapped a few dozen of my signature cliché landscape photos and watched a bunch of sea lions lay around on the rocks, which occasionally got up to emit a few random barking noises before laying back down and playing dead. Seriously, when you see these things from afar, you can’t tell if they are completely alive or 2 weeks post mortem. They are that ugly!

Before too long, we had to return to the car and point ourselves back in the direction of Silicon Valley. I was happy to have made something of the weekend that did not involve being wasted in San Francisco like I had been for the past 2 or 3 weekends in a row. I believe wholeheartedly that drunken Fridays and Saturdays are extremely important elements of achieving a balance in one’s life, but I have found that so too are peaceful weekend getaways to the seashore. I am glad to be living in a place where I can easily have so much fun doing both! I look forward to sharing it with you someday soon!

After 2 hours of dancing at the Café at Market and Castro, we headed down to the Mission to see what late-night Mexican options were available. To our great delight, there was not only a Taqueria open, bright yellow sign blazing and all, but there was a perfect parking space right on the street in front of the establishment. I am such a sucker for great spaces on the street. I always seem to get lucky and zip right into them. We wandered, ears still ringing, into the place, our noses filled instantly with the irresistible aromas of cilantro and carne asada. It was a slightly bilingual experience getting our burrito but before long we were chowing down on authentic Mexican deliciousness. Burritos are an amazing food to me, in that while there seems to be infinite variations of the creation, every single one manages to be overwhelmingly delicious. We sucked down the rest of our orchata and drove off into the night.

The next morning, we woke up and in short order, wanted food again. Not to worry, since Silicon Valley seems to have the whole restaurant thing covered. We chose to hit up the Whole Foods grocery store for some customizable lunch options. I got a mouth watering chicken breast sandwich on ciabatta, complete with pesto, fresh mozzarella, tomatoes, and spinach. Dan put together one of the most diverse salads I’ve ever seen (everything from olives to mango!) and we headed back to my place to fill our tummies on the picnic table in my sunny backyard. I grabbed a bottle of merlot from my room and we had ourselves a pretty lovely lunch if I do say so myself. 2 or 3 hours later, we dragged ourselves out of our food comas and drove over to Shoreline Park. This park is interesting in that it is built upon a retired landfill packed with decades of San Francisco’s trash. At some point in the last decade or so, the city of Mountain View decided to cover the whole thing up with dirt and build a golf course and a 50-acre salt water lake. I must say, it was a great idea, and unless you are really looking, you could never tell that this wasn’t just some bayside recreation area that had been around for decades.

We decided to rent a rowboat and paddle out into the lake for an hour to enjoy the sunny weather. It was pretty windy, but thankfully I was given the responsibility of sitting and looking pretty while Dan took care of paddling our boat upwind. He happened to have spent a few years as crew team captain in high school though, so he was up for the challenge. Bouncing around the lake, while pretty unremarkable, was nice simply for the opportunity to be out on the water breathing the fresh air, after being cooped up in cubicle-land all week. I took the downwind shift back towards the boathouse and we were heading back into town before long.

For dinner we ate in Mountain View at a vegan Chinese restaurant. Now those of you who know something about my eating habits are aware that I really have no interest in vegetarianism and that whole school of thought. While I certainly respect people’s choices as well as their reasons for making them, I enjoy a big steak or a beef burrito more than anything and at this point have no intentions of giving them up. However, this restaurant gets my wholehearted approval and here’s why. Basically, we all have no idea what is in regular Chinese food to begin with, so while the idea of vegan Chinese might sound a little scary to some, I am here to say that I couldn’t tell a bit of difference between the fake meat we were eating and the mystery meat served in the regular stuff. With that said, I almost feel safer chowing down on some fake bean curd chicken at this place than the sketchy but real meat found down the street at a dozen oriental restaurants. It didn’t hurt that the food was quite reasonably priced and that the staff were more than friendly to us the entire time.

Stomachs full yet again, we headed back to my house for a lazy evening of movies, red zinfandel, and earth hour. For those of you interested in wine, I cannot say enough good things about the 2004 Renwood Old Vine Zin from the great state of California. It is big and oaky but with plenty of fruit underneath to keep your entire tongue happy. It is not so dry that it can’t be enjoyed by itself, although I really like it best with a plate of Brie and Camembert! Out here it is only $15 a bottle and maybe a few bucks more in the east.

Now that my wine review is over, on to Sunday! I have just one word – Tahoe! I reluctantly rolled out of bed to the sound of my alarm at 5:15 AM, hours before the sun would be rising. I moved slowly as I always do when I am on 4 hours of sleep. I was also coming down with a little cold but I managed to convince myself that Tahoe was not something I’d be able to do any old time, so I better get myself going. In the unsatisfyingly dim light of my eco-friendly 7-watt compact fluorescent bulb, I pulled on my tight fitting ski thermals and then sweatpants and a sweatshirt. Socks and shoes followed and I was out the door before six.

I cruised across town to pick up my friend Eric who was riding up with me. Eric, who I know from my floor freshmen year, coincidentally is also on co-op from RIT in Sunnyvale and is working for AMD right down the street from my office. I found his apartment in the darkness that still enveloped the valley and we were on the freeway before too long. We made it out past Fremont before the sun began to rise and blind us as we headed east. I was really having a tough time staying awake, so we got off the highway a little past Sacramento for some breakfast and some Red Bull. We pulled into the Wendy’s parking lot, not at that concerned with the health risks of fast food consumption, and walked inside. Lucky for us, Wendy’s had recently created a breakfast menu, so I ordered myself some tasty looking French toast sticks and hash browns. I practically inhaled the food in front of me and we were out in no time at all. We stopped again for 10 gallons of gas and two 16 ounce cans of Red Bull (yes, they now make them double sized!) and we were doing 80 mph again in no time.

Route 50 is the preferred course for heading towards south Lake Tahoe, so that is the exit we took. Almost immediately, we began climbing in altitude, causing me to all but abandon fifth gear as a means of forward propulsion. We were alerted of our altitude by signs on the highway every 1000 miles, and I was amazed at how quickly they went by. We stopped only once to relieve ourselves quickly in the woods and by 10 we had made it to Sierra-At-Tahoe, our skiing destination, at roughly 7000 feet of elevation. Let me just comment that this was the first time the Mazda had been to such extreme altitudes and it appeared to be handling it like a champ. I was proud.

I put on the rest of my gear and headed into the rental area to see what I could get in the way of boots and skis. Unfortunately the place had already sold all of this year’s demo equipment so I was stuck with the regular rentals. Ugh. I try to stay positive in this blog for the most part, but the skiing was, in many ways, less than fabulous. I won’t complain about the conditions too much, because ice and slush are really just a part of life when skiing at relatively low altitudes in the end of March. And the skis weren’t horrific, but certainly seemed a lot softer and less adept at carving than my own, which are in a closet in Maryland right now. The lack of edging ability and overall grip on the mountain created a situation where I was doing more of a swiveling motion back and forth across the ice in an attempt to control my speedy descent. And whereas my boards are usually well waxed and practically self-accelerate on flat areas, these babies were stuck in glue. I couldn’t let myself spend the whole day complaining though, and in a pretty short time I had mostly adapted to the conditions and the gear, finding ways to enjoy myself, even though my snowboarding counterparts were totally smoking me down the mountain.

My optimism paid off and I really had a great time the rest of the afternoon. We skied all the way till 4, stopping only for the obligatory chili and cheese in a sourdough bread bowl for lunch. After packing our gear up and heading back to 50, we decided to take a little detour. Having driven four hours, we couldn’t just head back to the valley without actually seeing Lake Tahoe! We were treated to a very scenic ride down towards the water and before long, we reached the shore. I was excited to see the lake, since it is so huge among all those mountains. I was told that most of the volume of the lake is completely natural, with only about 10 feet of depth due to one single man-made dam. Pretty remarkable if you ask me.

It was cold so back in the car we went, and westward we drove. I had a wonderful time losing all that altitude, passing RV’s and slow moving vehicles every chance I got as I navigated the winding mountain road (take it easy my dear parents, there was a passing lane!). We reached the highway with ease and sat in what I now know was post-spring break traffic. Things eventually sped up and we were back in Sunnyvale by 9:30. I dropped Eric off and headed to my house, thinking only of a quick and carb-heavy meal and my very comfortable bed. I succeeded in finding both and before too long, I was passed out and dreaming of another action packed (and exhausting) weekend in the west!