On not visiting San Francisco: California to Arizona

Having outdone herself with breakfasts, Juliet packed us sandwiches and sent us on our way north. If you’ve never had the pleasure of driving Highway 1 along the California coast, don’t miss it.

A year ago, a dreadful landslide rained mud on this iconic highway, and a section of it is still closed for repairs. To get around this and make our way to Big Sur, Juliet recommended a detour on Highway 46 East (vineyard country) and then take the Jolon Road up to Nacimiento-Fergusson Road, which winds (seriously) through the forest to rejoin the coastal highway. I ended up stopping at a general store—the only establishment on the Jolon Road—to ask if we were headed in the right direction. The woman there said she gets this all the time. “But don’t worry,” she said, “if I were in the city I’d be just as confused as you.”

We were indeed headed the right way, and I bought a lemonade in gratitude. Wikipedia helpfully informs us that “Nacimiento-Fergusson Road is the only road across the Santa Lucia Range in the Central Coast of California, connecting California State Route 1 and the Big Sur coast to U.S. Route 101 and the Salinas Valley.” The road starts at an army training base, but the folks there just waved us through. From there on we were in the National Forest. We weren’t camping but just so you know, all public lands in the U.S. (such as National Forests) are free to camp in. Marvelous option.

Eventually T. careened down towards the sea and we resumed our clifftop drive via Big Sur to Monterey and San Francisco. We crossed the Golden Gate Bridge to the tune of “San Francisco (Be Sure To Wear Flowers In Your Hair).”

But we weren’t stopping in San Francisco. We were headed for Marin County, north of the Bay, and the home of T’s oldest school friend, Bernie. (Not to be confused with cousin Bernie of Donegal.)

From our blog posts, Bernie had deduced that we like hiking. So the first thing she did was take us on the Tomales Point Trail in Point Reyes National Seashore. 

I have never seen so many wildflowers before. They were so profuse that at some points they threatened to swallow the unmaintained trail!

The seashore is also a haven for tule elk, and we saw lots of them.

Tule elk

The views on this hike were unparalleled, but it was nearly ten miles long! T. let it be known she would not be hiking that many miles again. Good to know for future national parks.

We meant to return to San Francisco and see the city, and there is one reason that we didn’t: Aunt Eunice. I wanted to visit my great-aunt, who is 96, and instead of becoming tired as one might legitimately expect a nonagenarian to do, Aunt Eunice just kept telling more stories! Instead of returning in the evening, we were out having dinner with her and her son Jim (visiting from Sydney!) 

“I told [Uncle Dick, her late husband] that I didn’t want a cochlear implant,” Aunt Eunice said. “I didn’t want to have anything in common with that talk radio personality—Rush Limbaugh!” She and Uncle Dick, as it turned out, were all set to be missionaries in China, but never made it to the mainland because of the communist takeover in 1949. Instead, they went to Hong Kong, Taiwan, Bhutan, the Philippines, India, Nepal, New Zealand, Britain and Europe, Japan, Canada, Alaska, and all over the U.S. She told us all about these many trips. In fact, out came a 30-year-old road atlas, along with Aunt Eunice’s advice on the routes we could take from northern California to our next destination.

I never knew this before either, but when she was a young woman, Aunt Eunice worked in a machine gun factory in Detroit. The original Rosie the Riveter, almost. She is my last living link to those who served during the Second World War. (Our family just lost my great-uncle Richard, a U.S. Marine veteran.) Aunt Eunice is a mind-blowing legend. She’s looking forward to her 97th birthday and, apparently, to our next visit, when she hopes her favorite Italian restaurant won’t be so busy!

It would be hard for any attraction in the Bay Area to top this. But Bernie outdid herself. She and her friends Shirley and Florence took us on a tour of Napa and Sonoma wineries, which was scrumptious. At Wellington’s, where T. tried some port (not liking other wine), the Zinfandel vines date from 1882. No wonder they are so “gnarly.”

Sonoma's mission of San Francisco Solano

There were a few American citizens in the car, but I was the only one with a native accent. Nonetheless, Bernie pressed on to that most American of experiences: the county fair. The first thing we came upon was a pig race! It was the sort of thing you had to see to believe, though I’m unsure whether a pig race is up to Marin County’s usual animal standards. Hot dogs and funnel cakes filled out the county fair experience.

Portion size: entire pig

The featured performers that night were the Beach Boys. We couldn’t hear them very well because all the nearby space already had people in it. But at least two of the Boys were originals, including Mike Love.

It was Canada Day, and three days before U.S. Independence Day. In honor of this, the county fair was setting off fireworks—otherwise banned in such a parched place as California. I’ve never been that fond of fireworks, but New Year’s Eve had been a damp squib, where we went to bed in advance of an obscenely early flight out of Bangkok, and I woke up at midnight to indistinct booms. The show over the water in Marin County was about the best I’ve seen.

The five of us couldn’t leave the fair without riding the carousel.

Despite all this effort to stay out late, we still sat in traffic on the way out. Bernie made up for this with ’70s British pop music and some wicked seat dancing. What a fun group.

Like everywhere else we’ve traveled, with the possible exception of Budapest, we could go back to the Bay Area. And we will. But for now, we had a deadline and I was impatient to see my family in Phoenix.

In a decision strongly seconded by Jim and Aunt Eunice, T. did not take the fastest route, back via LA, but turned towards Yosemite National Park.

Don Pedro Lake, on the scenic route 

The last time T. and I visited Yosemite, it was May, a month we foolishly thought was spring. Snow fell while we were there (we were in a permanent, but unheated tent) and we had to leave by the one road not requiring snow tires or chains. This time, the high road through the park was open, and we were able to drive through the Tioga Pass, elevation 9,945 feet.

Half Dome

Tenaya Lake

Shortly after turning onto U.S. Highway 6, we saw a sign saying 3,205 miles to Provincetown, Massachusetts.

Yes, it’s true. Today’s Highway 6 begins in Bishop, California, behind a gas station, and ends at the tip of Cape Cod. Isn’t that amazing? If we stayed on Highway 6 we’d go through states I’ve never visited: Colorado, Nebraska, Rhode Island. And we love Provincetown. We’re forever hearing what a great road trip “Root” 66 is, but who ever hears about poor old Route 6? It’s another trip we’ll have to do someday.

But not today. Today we were taking state highways that went from California to Nevada and back again, and going as far as we could go towards our destination. The place we ran out of steam was Beatty, Nevada.

There isn’t a whole lot on U.S. Highway 95 except Beatty, until you get to Las Vegas. And much as we’d have liked to go to Bally’s and crash the Golden Crown Literary Society convention, T. was too tired to drive anymore. It had gotten dark and we’d already seen one coyote crossing the road. Besides, the pleasures of Nevada beckoned even in Beatty.

I’m not sure I can convey how welcome a Motel 6 and a 24-hour diner are, when one has been on desolate state roads for hours and hours. The thing about the United States is that they are so vast. There are so many miles of desert emptiness; it’s difficult to get across to someone who grew up outside North America. The tacky chains that uglify most American towns are, at that point when you are running out of gas and energy, exactly what you want to see. 

T. played some bar poker and I admired the cigarette machine. Don’t get me wrong. I have never smoked in my life, and despise cigarettes. But there is something fascinating about the way the state of Nevada has remained stuck in the past. People smoke in bars, which doesn’t happen many places in the world anymore. I don’t like it, but it does feel like temporarily stepping into my past—a time I enjoyed.

The next morning we were on the home stretch, fortified by a Denny’s breakfast. The two best things about America are both to do with coffee. One is half and half (I’ve never understood why England, a country with a dozen different kinds of cream, cannot produce this) and the other is the bottomless cup of coffee. Picture this: You order a coffee, and by the time your breakfast comes it is gone; but instead of not having any coffee with your food or having to pay four dollars more, your cup is instead magically refilled by the waiter or waitress. If you are North American, you may not realize that this wonder is unique to our part of the world. Cherish it.

Along the way to Phoenix we saw red flowers on the branches of all the cacti, which we don't normally see at the time of year we visit. On our arrival my sister was not there. She and her family were on their own leg of vacation with our aunt and uncle in Chicago. The cats, however, were home.

As was my brother, his wife and daughter, and their dog.

These days Nugget is thrilled to see us, especially T. This was not always the case. He’s a shy dog and spent years whining and hiding under the coffee table whenever “new” people (us) arrived, until one memorable day when we dog-sat and T. threw a ball for him all day. Ever since then, she has been his favorite auntie.

Actually T. is like this with pretty much all animals, and kids as well. The next day, the actual Fourth of July, my brother's family threw a party. Because this is summer, a time when Arizona is uninhabitable, the only way to party outdoors is in a pool. Fortunately Ben has one. All the friends' and neighbor kids naturally glommed onto T.

Afterwards my brother, sister-in-law, niece, T., and I each had a sparkler and sang what patriotic songs we knew ("You're a grand old flag," etc.) 

We did actually see my sister before leaving town, not just stay at her place. Since our last meeting, Rachel has quite an accomplishment to show off: Ashley and her daughters Kenzie and Claire. (What is it about girls in this family?) We were eager to meet all of them and brought the girls souvenirs from Bangkok and Siem Reap. Claire in particular seemed taken with hers.

Before leaving Rachel’s (temporarily) I should say that I am quite proud of an accomplishment of my own: I picked them all up at the airport. This is a bigger deal than it sounds. Phoenix’s international airport, Sky Harbor, is so infamous for its confusing signs and lane changes that people who have lived here all their lives still complain on TripAdvisor about it. Sky Harbor is all the more deceptive in that it exists on Phoenix’s straightforward grid system, between 24th and 44th Streets. But I have never before driven there without sailing blithely into the wrong terminal or out of the airport on my first go-round. Getting into the parking garage, and that nearest to their gate, was an achievement of the first rank as far as my life is concerned.

Welcome home!

We just guessed on souvenirs for Kenzie and Claire. Ben and Elizabeth’s daughter, Maisie, we have known from birth, so we had a better idea of her style. She seemed quite taken with this silk sleeping bag liner from Vietnam (handmade at a cooperative for people with disabilities in Hoi An).

We had two weeks of camping ahead of us, and as it turned out, Elizabeth told us Maisie slept with this every night of the trip. But that’s a story for another post.