Napa to San Simeon

My friend Benita had reminded me that Mark Twain once said, "The coldest winter I ever spent was summer in San Francisco."  We were reminded of this as we drove south along San Francisco Bay, the shining Pacific Ocean off to the west, bundled up against the fog.  When we crossed the famous Golden Gate Bridge - the second of two great suspension bridges on this journey across America - we paused to take this photo on the other side.

Yes, it was completely fogged-in (as it often is, we understand), and all we could see were glimpses of the tall golden towers disappearing above us in the fog, and here its faint shape from the opposite shore.  When we came off the bridge, we were instantly in city traffic, and as the fog began to lift we made our way to Mini of San Francisco, located surprisingly in the heart of the downtown area with some other car dealerships.  They treated us well while we waited for the oil change I had set up weeks ahead of time.  (Minis are supposed to go 15,000 miles between oil changes, but we don't like to wait that long; we thought that after nearly 5,000 miles of hard driving, it was time.)

That Scott McKenzie ode to Flower Power from the 60s unaccountably begins going through my mind:

If you're going to San Francisco
Be sure to wear some flowers in your hair
If you're going to San Francisco
You're gonna meet some gentle people there

What a tangle of traffic we were in once again!  We caught a glimpse of pretty neighborhoods and those famous steep hills, and there were people everywhere, not just driving but riding bicycles, pedestrians out in the middle of the road.  One black vehicle rocketed past us as if he had robbed a bank.  And apparently there is a continual freeway between San Francisco and Los Angeles.  But when we reached Carmel-by-the-Sea, we got off the freeway onto the Pacific Coast Highway, an unparalleled driving experience, even more beautiful than the drive into Yosemite.  Banks of fog were rolling in off the ocean, which we could see from time to time below us.

This is a gorgeous coastline, fog and sunlight playing with each other.  There were some very expensive Spanish-tile houses perched on the cliffs above and below us, and in places we could see big grassy fields, cattle grazing, as I picture it might be along the coast of Britain.  These are the Santa Lucia Mountains, coming down to meet the sea.  Even though it was very chilly, we had the top down - there was no other way to drive this road!  We could smell pungent redwoods all around, like oak barrels.  Hawks were floating overhead, perhaps nesting in the cliffs.  We came into Big Sur and stopped for awhile to stroll in some out-of-the-way place where time seemed to have stopped.  No cellphone service or internet and nobody seemed to mind.  This little memorial to an unknown surfer named Jay Moriarty was scrawled on the rear window of a car.  Yes, you have to appreciate everything!

I was running low on our supply of Martha's granola brought from Highlands, the staple of my breakfast each morning, and had been looking for some more.  So when we saw the sign along the road in Big Sur for "Holy Granola," we circled back to investigate.  Up and up we climbed, looking down over the Pacific below, on a single-lane driveway.

The Holy Granola, it transpired, was sold by a Camaldoli Hermitage, a Benedictine monastery whose gift shop was also packed with arts and crafts and all sorts of interesting books - everything from Thomas Merton to Henri Nouwen.  We were asked to be silent as we went in to view the chapel, seats all around in a circle for evening vespers, and a bowl of holy water with a little brush where the Prior blesses each worshiper.  The Hermitage is a retreat, also, and I think I could spend some time in spartan quarters in this holy place of silence and peace high above the sea.  Eating good granola.

We descended to the sea again, and now we could smell that brininess, lower and lower as we drove south to San Simeon.  On  the way we saw these elephant seals sprawled out on the beach.  They come ashore this time of year to molt, or shed their old skin.

Our hotel in San Simeon, the Cavalier, was directly on the ocean, a big wide lawn and then a steep bluff, and then the cold Pacific Ocean, into which we waded.  Martha left her rose there, given to us at the renewal of our vows in Las Vegas.  And I took away a large rock, worn smooth by the Pacific (which I somehow managed to lodge in the boot of our Mini), which will go into a stone wall I am building in Highlands.

We have seen many sunrises over the Atlantic Ocean, but never before this foggy sunset over the Pacific.