Yesterday was rainy and wet; tomorrow will be too. Today is sunny and beautiful. Better hit the road.
The easiest pleasant drive out of San Francisco is south down Highway 1. Today that trip starts with a stop at Macys to return a shirt. This is me waiting in the car while my boyfriend does that.
After a quick stop, we're moving.
Could there possibly be a more lovely place name than Half Moon Bay? Not to me.
This road goes all the way to L.A. where people call it "the PCH", as in the Pacific Coast Highway. You will never hear anyone from Northern California ever say that. We call it Highway One. Or simply, One.
See the stairs up the side of the hill? And the tower in the trees? It's a WWII-era watchtower, and those stairs have no railing. The most thrilling, dangerous thing I've ever done was walk up those stairs and climb that tower at about two in the morning with some college friends after a Butthole Surfers concert at the Fillmore in 1987. It was the first month of my first year in college. Five of us were sitting together having a late dinner in the dining hall. Someone mentioned off-handedly that it would be fun to go see the Butthole Surfers. Everyone agreed, so we got up and went.
You'd think California would have knocked that tower down by now. But there's just a sign saying "Do Not Enter". Yeah, right.
If I could have one memory in my life sharpened and clarified, it would be that night. Sitting up on the watchtower with my four new best friends (sophisticated, precocious kids far more interesting than anyone I'd ever met), in the cold night, with the wind blowing in our faces, staring straight into the biggest full moon I've ever seen, I remember thinking, "This is my life now, and I love it." I wanted to freeze the moment and remember it forever, but I don't. It was late, and I was tired, and the whole thing's rather fragmentary. But I drive down One several times a year and I see that tower and it makes me feel happy. (This time, like all times since 1987, I just drive by.)