thanksgiving, goulash style

It was 4:00PM when the sky darkened from the faded grey overcast the day produced.  It didn't matter that there was no sunset, or sun at all throughout the day for that matter.  As dusk turned to night the lights that blanketed the city and buildings illuminated creating a stunningly beautiful picture.  On this particular night we took a boat ride down the river Danube which divides Buda and Pest, the two areas that make up the city Budapest, Hungary.  The castle that sits atop the Buda hillside was brilliant in it's old world glory while the newer Parliament building on the Pest side seemed to be challenging its beauty with its impressive architecture emphasized by all the lights.

The boat ride was just one highlight of our Thanksgiving week adventure.  My family and I spent our time traversing the city that is still somewhat emerging from the Communist era oppression it endured.  My youngest sister, who is studying abroad in Budapest, was an excellent tour guide, leading us through the public transport system, providing insight into the history of the city and its sights and even speaking Hungarian, a feat I greatly admire.

I found the city to be charming in an undiscovered way.  Although there are scatterings of boxy, nondescript buildings and some of the buildings are covered in dirt, exemplifying remnants of communist era, there still can be found wonderful architecture and a sense that there has been tremendous effort put forth trying to rebuild and restore a city that lost 80% of its buildings in the Second World War.  In certain ways there is a sad aura that is felt about the city that has endured so much in its history.  However, I found there is also a determination to present itself as a city that is no longer under a communist hold and that does not shy away from it's plagued history which is evident in the many statues and tributes scattered throughout the city.

We were fortunate to be there just before Christmastime.  In addition to the lights that adorn the buildings to illuminate them each night, there were even more lights strung above the streets in snowflake and icicle patterns. There was also a large holiday market with wooden booths set up for vendors selling everything from Hungarian made leather products, to ornaments, to tasty food offerings such as giant pretzels, sausages, pastries and endless cauldrons of hot mulled wine.

On that note, what about the food? I had heard a preconceived notion before traveling to Hungary that the food left much to be desired.  In fact, we found the food was delicious, albeit very meat-centric, but filling and just the type of thing we craved in the cold weather.  I thought that goulash was supposed to be a thick, gravy-type meat dish; instead, it is more traditionally a broth based meat soup.  Other traditional specialties include stuffed peppers and stuffed cabbage, all delightfully seasoned with another Hungarian specialty: paprika.

I'm thankful that I was able to spend the Thanksgiving holiday in such a unique and wonderful city with my family who I cherish so deeply.  Although our Thanksgiving day meal did not have any turkey, stuffing, cranberries or even mashed potatoes, and there was no pumpkin or pecan pie, we still all sat around one table together, enjoying each others company and all thankful for the opportunity to see another culture half a world away.

one year is never enough

I am often asked how things are going, how it is living in a "new place" (although now that it's been two years, maybe it's not so new...)  I always try to answer in earnest, that really the last five years have been quite the adventure going from CA to NYC to SC.  I wrote the following last spring thinking I might submit it somewhere but never posted it on the blog.  Here it is now, in summary, my feelings on all the shifting the last five years have brought.

It will only be a year and then I will move back. Turning the statement over in my head, I find myself contemplating the assured tone I once had when saying those words.  Out my window, the traffic rolls by and the sky is swept with grey.  It’s actually a welcomed coolness that permeates the air considering the sweltering heat that will arrive in a month or two and stay far longer than anyone wants.  It’s nice to pause and just think once in a while, but my thoughts almost always come back to how I got here.  I mean that literally, how did I come to live in this Southern city?  I can’t help but marvel at the path that has gotten me to this point; not one, but almost five years have passed by since I left “home” for big city life, which in turn led me back to a smaller town.   

It started when I was twenty-two.  I wanted badly to get out of the “normal” way of life that I knew and was comfortable with.  In a way, I think I was a little scared of being trapped in the same place forever.  I suppose that’s why I took such a drastic leap to change everything about the way I was living.  I had just graduated from UC Santa Barbara, the coastal university in California that I attended after growing up and going to High School in Newport Beach, another southern California beach town.  I considered myself a bona fide beach girl spending summers lounging in the sand on the shore with the constant smell of salt water lingering in my sandy brown hair and a year-round sun kissed glow that I always took for granted.  I had loved the role I assumed, but at twenty-two, things changed.  I wanted to go to a city, live a bigger and faster life with the world at my fingertips.  Nothing fit that description better than New York City.  So I packed my bags and escaped to the Big Apple.

It was only supposed to be for a year.  I really didn’t intend for the getaway to be permanent.  After all, my whole family lives in California; to travel back for a visit is neither easy or inexpensive.  What I didn’t realize is that moving to a new place takes much longer than a year to adjust.  I had to find a job, a place to live, and figure my way around such a massive metropolitan city.  It was an exciting, fun, terrifying adventure and after a year there was no chance I was ready to return to California and my beach girl ways.  One year turned into three during which time I met my now husband.  It was my mother’s fear when I first announced I would be relocating across country.  “You are going to meet someone and never come back,” she would say to me almost with a matter-of-fact tone.  I would roll my eyes or try to reassure her that she was just overreacting.  I now realize two things: that I was insensitive and naïve, and that she was right.  I met an amazing man and we got married after two and a half years together.

As much as I love New York City, I began to resent parts of living there.  The cold winters seemed to stretch longer each year.  The pace of the city was grueling at times where it seemed if you stopped and yelled out in the middle of the street, there might not be anyone that would notice.  These anonymities were what I loved when I first moved there; they were what my twenty-two year old self was craving, but as a few years trickled by it seemed I was ready to search for something else.  It was never supposed to be a permanent move and maybe that thought in the back of my mind prompted me to stir up morose feelings.  Just as I began to manifest these sentiments, an opportunity came up for us to purchase a franchise and move.  This was a perfect solution to feeling the New York itch.  This was a chance out.  There was just one catch, we would be moving to South Carolina.

I don’t mean to make moving to South Carolina sound like a bad thing; it’s a beautiful place filled with delicious food, robust traditions and a leisurely pace, but I had never been there and it was all unfamiliar to me. Frankly, I never thought I would be moving to the South.  The West coast and East coast are very different animals, especially the Northeast.  I was confused that I felt apprehension over the move, hadn’t I just picked up and moved to the very foreign New York City only three years earlier?  My husband and I had spent hours upon hours dreaming up all the places in the world we could live and I always presented myself as up for the adventure.  For some reason, this felt different.  Maybe it was because of that statement I convinced myself of when I was twenty-two.  It will only be a year and then I’ll move back.  Now I was signing up for a much more permanent experience living on the east coast.

The day we left New York, I cried as we drove out of the city.  I hadn’t anticipated such fierce emotion to escape me, but tears rolled down my cheeks and I spent the first twenty minutes of the drive mourning the fact that my adventure in New York was over.  Once I had grieved, I felt a weight lifted and was ready for this next journey in life to begin.  Unfortunately, it wasn’t as easy and freeing as I had thought and throughout the first few months of living in our new home I often felt frustrated and unsure of what my place was in this new life. 

It has now been a year and a half since moving to Columbia, South Carolina.  I will be the first to admit, not all the adjustments have been easy.  After a lot of self-reflection I realized my focus needed to shift from looking for the escape, or for what’s next, or to always be thinking it will only be a year.  When I do that, I am missing out on some of the now, on the world happening and being great and beautiful.  Now that my eyes are open and my attitude is shifting, I am coming to love and appreciate this part of the country: the low country attitude, the graciousness and kindness of people that live here, the amazing culinary offerings and the beautiful and changing scenery.

I’m not sure where we will move next or when that will be.  Sometimes I still feel unsettled, I think about my family cross-country and wish I lived closer.  I marvel that my path in life has taken me to this southern town.  Instead of waiting for the next opportunity to uproot and move again, I want to live here and embrace my life until the time comes to make the next shift, knowing that only a year is never enough.

mud run

Last weekend I paid $37 to be scratched and bruised by tree stumps and covered from head to toe with mud.  Perhaps not one of the wisest uses of funds for me personally, but at least it went to a great cause.  The reason for the insanity was to participate in the US Marine Corp bi-annual mud run.

I wasn't alone in this crazy endeavor.  I was joined by 9,600 other daring people who also participated in the race which consisted of 5.2 miles and 36 obstacles.  You participate in this particular race in teams of four.  It's very much a team activity where you cannot complete the obstacles without your whole team.

Course Map

Our team's start time was 12:23PM Saturday afternoon.  It was a flawless day boasting a beautiful blue sky with scattered puffy clouds.  The sun was shining making it a comfortably warm temperature.  The conditions were perfect.  As we waited in line for our start I felt nervous, anxious at what was ahead and in store for me on the course, and was dreading my inevitable meeting with mud.  The announcer signaled our team's go-ahead and we began with a slow jog so as not to tire ourselves too quickly.

I approached the first obstacle with wide-eyed fear.  There were eight logs lined up in a row atop a murky mud hole.  It was more like mud water than thick and sticky mud.  The task was to duck under each log.  The catch was the only way to get under was crouching down low on all fours and for two or three of the logs you actually had to submerge your head under the muddy water.  My teammates were already halfway through the obstacle when I took a deep breath, closed my eyes tight and prayed I would come up on the other side without swallowing any of the gross liquid.  I'm not sure what is more challenging... running 5.2 miles, completing the difficult obstacles or running and completing the obstacles while weighted down with mud that clings to clothes, hair, skin and shoes...

Click here to see list and description of obstacles

Our team lumbered on through the challenges which included more logs that we had to boost each other over, a 15 foot wall we had boost and pull each other over, rope swings, mud trenches, rope ladders to climb 15 feet up and then down the other side, a creek we waded through, and my very least favorite obstacle the ultimate mud pit.  The pit was one of the obstacles near the end of the race.  I would be remiss if I said this was just a 20 yard mud pool we all had to wade or "swim" across.  This mud was thick, clumpy, had a stench I tried to ignore and was downright gross! At 5'8'' tall, the mud came up to my neck.  There was even one section where my feet unsuccessfully searched for the bottom and I was forced to hurl myself forward just to make progress through the obstacle.  We all emerged out the other side looking like swamp monsters from a comic book.  It took me days to clean the viscous stuff from my ears and fingernails.

Our team tromped across the finish line an hour and half after starting the race.  I was asked if I would participate in the mud run again, as they host the event twice a year in the Columbia area.  I paused, contemplated the question while running through the obstacles in my head, my thoughtful and careful response was "I'm not really sure... I don't think so."  In truth I'll probably sign up again in the future.  It's one of those quite masochistic endeavors that you only partially enjoy while doing, is painful to complete but rewarding in the memories and stories that emerge from partaking in the event.

If nothing else, the money raised is used to support the men and women Marines and their families in the Columbia area who have been wounded or killed while on active duty. The money also goes towards several active scholarships in the Columbia area that were named after Marines who were killed.  That is most definitely a cause I am happy to get muddy again and again for.

learning to swim

I don't remember learning how to swim.  I do remember being about six years old and being plucked out of the group of fellow 5 and 6 year olds at our daily practice.  Coach Ted wanted me to demonstrate one lap of butterfly.  Me??? I don't remember doing that lap in the pool, or what the other kids' reactions were.  But I do remember being very proud of being asked to demonstrate.  Obviously I had teachers and coaches that helped me learn the butterfly stroke.  I'm sure hours were spent while I flailed and splashed through the water in efforts to learn how to "legally" swim down the length of a pool.

Swimming is a skill I think most parents want their kids to learn at a young age if for no other reason than to be safe when near any body of water.  However, competitive swimming is a whole other ball game.  Freestyle, Backstroke, Breaststroke and the often dreaded Butterfly are the four technical strokes in swimming.  You learn them as if you would a pirouette in ballet, a back handspring in gymnastics or how to swing a bat and make contact with the ball in baseball.  Yet when you swim, your body is floating through the body of water, gravity is defied and all you hear when your head is submerged is the swishing of water past you.  In learning the strokes, you must manipulate the water around you, using the force to propel you down the pool, moving your arms and legs, which feel much lighter under the water, with deliberate strength and force.

I started teaching swim lessons several weeks ago to beginner swimmers.  I suit up twice a week, get in the three foot deep pool with my swim students and try to teach them the basic swim strokes.  Most of the kids I teach are about 5-7 years old.  They are eager, full of energy and once they are used to the water and submerging underneath it, generally fearless on all counts.  Their enthusiasm for learning aside, teaching swimming is one of the more challenging things I've tried to do.  I suppose like any other skill or sport it takes repetition, practice and instruction.  Just yesterday, I was explaining breaststroke to the two five year old girls that were in my lesson.

First, I tried to explain how to move your feet,

"Who knows what a frogs feet looks like?" I ask and they raise their hands excitedly.  "Your feet go up at the same time, out to the side and then swooosh together in a glide."  I demonstrate myself in the three foot pool.  "Did you see what I did?"

"Yeah," one of them replies.  "But your feet sank!?"

I blink a few times, smile and then tell them their feet should not sink.  I'm too big for this three foot pool... 

Okay, now it's time to try, I tell them.  Off they go.  Feet kick wildly, every third to fifth time the up, out, together motion is achieved.  They cling to the kickboards willing the foam pieces to propel them forward. Maybe it will be better when we add the arms...  

"You scoop your arms like you're grabbing your favorite treat, take a bite and then push it out to share with your friends!" I try valiantly to explain in a way they understand.  

They copy my motions and I think yes, they get it.  Okay, time to try it altogether.  Off they go again this time flailing, scooping, arms by their side, pushing the water trying to do anything they can not to sink to the bottom.  The feet look pretty good, but the hands are a disaster, at one point I pull each of them up and say "Don't forget to breathe!"  Not sure how far those little lungs can hold the air with all that wiggling about underwater.

Our time together is only thirty minutes, just long enough to cover three of the strokes and I'm thankful we didn't have to try butterfly yet.  We play a quick game of sharks and minnow and I chase them down the pool pretending they are too fast for me to catch.

The lesson is over, they are smiling.  Thats good at least. I'm optimistic that they'll eventually get the breaststroke, that I'm at least teaching them something...  I don't remember how I learned to swim, but I'd like to think I was just as fearless, willing to try (between a few tantrums I'm sure...), and at least liked it somewhat.  Maybe these kids will teach swimming 20 + years down the road, maybe not.  They probably wont remember how they learned to swim.  In the meantime, I'll try to teach them to swim in the three foot pool and we'll all try not to sink together.

 

 

vacation hangover

Confession: I've been sitting, staring at my computer screen for about an hour.  I'm trying to write a short essay to submit for an essay contest but I can't will my fingers to type out anything.  I wish I could blame the fantastic two-week family extravaganza that I am currently recuperating from; however, I know it's not the entire reason for my lack of creative juices.  So instead, I'll just partially blame the fun-filled vacation days for distracting me...

Why is it that vacations can make you less productive? Maybe it's because I can't stop thinking about sand between my toes, of noon-time naps because you can, of the refreshing cool feeling of water when dipping in the pool.  Case in point, there are far too many distractions to think about when experiencing a vacation hangover.

The two week extravaganza started off with my youngest sister coming to visit me in South Carolina.  She stayed for a few days during which we floated the river in big yellow inter-tubes, as she put it "the laziest thing she's ever done", and she has a good point being that we tethered ourselves to the back of the kayak that my hubby was paddling so there was absolutely no work at all involved in our float down the river.  Also on our agenda was floating in the pool on magenta pink floaties (clearly we like to float), indulging in a plethora of bad-for-you food including Southern BBQ, sandwiches dipped in thousand island dressing and at one such dinner, a side of lobster mac and cheese.  It was a glorious few days where we got to laugh, play and just spend time together.

Our visit continued when we picked up my parents from the Savannah airport and headed to Hilton Head Island for a week.  Hilton Head is beautiful with marshy scenery and cobalt blue skies.  The only downside to a trip there in August is the intensely thick humidity that made 90 degree days feel like 104 days.  To us, it didn't really bother much; we wiped away the sweat and enjoyed paddle boarding, swimming in the pool, bike riding, going to the beach, water skiing and once again indulging in delicious Southern fare.  

At the tail end of the trip, my other younger sister and her boyfriend traveled back home with us and spent a few more fun-filled days soaking up the Southern sun.  We once again floated the river with them on those huge yellow inner tubes; this time, actually paddling ourselves for a fraction of the way, an improvement over the first ultimate lazy trip.  We sweated through a walking tour of the town and took part in even more gorging of delicious meals and treats.  I absolutely loved and cherished my time talking, visiting and enjoying my sisters company.  Moments that are treasured.

With everyone gone, I find myself in a state of post-vacation blues.  I close my eyes and think of the sky melting into watercolors of pink and yellow as the sun fades down into the water.  My toes curl under my desk thinking of tanned feet from the perpetual wearing of flip flops.  The one plus I think of is that the smell of sunscreen and bug-spray are actually gladly replaced by the scent of my own sheets and towels now that I'm home.  

personal reflections on two years of marriage

In nine days, my hubby and I will celebrate our second wedding anniversary.  Our wedding day is still vividly preserved in my memory, as I know it will be for years to come.  I can see the chocolate brown of the tablecloths, the bright blue and white of the fresh hydrangeas popping up over the tables in beautiful arrangements.  I can smell the slight hint of salt that the ocean breeze blew inland, and the feeling I had when I slipped on my white wedding gown and zipped it up the side is still richly imprinted on my mind.  Although two years seems to have passed by quickly, I also feel that the amount of time has allowed me to grow and mature, to experience many new things and make new memories.

I remember the night that I first met Eric in December 2006 at my company's Christmas party.  Despite the fact he is insistent I was wearing a red dress, when in fact I was wearing black pants and a black top, we often reminisce about the first meeting that he remembers clearly too.  There are a few slight discrepancies between our memories of that night.  Aside from the red dress debate, he also contests that he was standing at a bar, ready to offer me a drink when I allegedly walked by quickly with only a brief smile.  I continue to argue that if he wanted to talk so bad, he could have gone after me.  The second meeting, in January 2007 can perhaps be considered the real start of it all.  During a Saints vs. Bears playoff game, he asked me out on a first date and two and a half years later we were married.

Aside from the first six weeks of our marriage which were spent living in NYC, the rest of our time has been spent in Columbia, South Carolina.  A place neither of us had spent any time previously.  The move was difficult for me; I always thought I was adventurous, up to live anywhere and ready for big changes.  In reality, it was hard to move from my friends and to still live so far away from my family.  I find myself now very thankful for the challenge.  It gave our new marriage the opportunity to be removed from everything safe and familiar.  We have taken the opportunity to discover the many great things about the place we live, which has even led us to discoveries about each other and our interests.  It has also challenged us to go out and make new friends, to be independent and outgoing. 

The move was not the only huge change we took on post-wedding; relocating coincided with our purchasing a franchise.  We would own our own business.  I think we were both slightly apprehensive of how it would be working together.  It all happened so fast that we really didn't have too much time to worry about it.  I could say luckily I love working together, but I don't really believe it has anything to do with luck.  I think it has been an exercise in understanding each other better, maintaining respect for one another and putting forth good old fashioned effort.  I've witnessed a very commanding, determined, pragmatic and discerning side to the person I married that I'm very proud of.  Working together has exposed our strengths (which oftentimes are different) and our weaknesses.  It has led to a different understanding of one another and a deeper appreciation.  Admittedly it isn't always rosy; sometimes we disagree on how to solve a problem, how to approach a situation, it's all part of working together.

Personally, I believe that love has many different levels, different meanings and different applications.  I love my friends for their companionship, loyalty and fun-loving nature.  I love my family for supporting and loving me back unconditionally.  I have even learned over the years (an ongoing process) to love myself, to appreciate my own abilities and to love other people in return.  In my marriage, I love my partner in each of those different ways.  

Undoubtedly, the next few years will feel like they flew by.  In my twenty-seventh year, I feel self-aware while still a bit unsure of what the future will hold; but as I continue to grow as a person, I know we will continue to grow together in our relationship.  

As we count the passing years and celebrate anniversaries to come, I'll keep close the memory of the first Christmas party, and of saying "yes" to being asked out on a first date.  I'll still recall the intense fluttering in my stomach and rush to my head as I looked at the man before me down on one knee with a ring in his outstretched hand.  An imprint of the sounds, smells and people that were there on our wedding day will remain on my mind and now I also have these first two years of change, challenge, triumph and growing to look back on and cherish.   

Chains do not hold a marriage together.  It is threads, hundreds of tiny threads which sew people together through the years.  ~Simone Signoret  

a proper lowcountry birthday

An owl hooted in the distance, a slight almost undetectable breeze blew through the trees, a blue heron took off down the winding river hoping to escape our boat as it glided through the water.  There was a calm and quiet peace that came from knowing that we were probably the only two people out on the creek for miles.  I imagined for a minute what it would have been like to float the waters during the time of colonial settlers.  The scene was part of my birthday celebration, which I playfully (but in all seriousness) stretch out for at least a week or two flanking the actual day I was born.  Yesterday was the actual birthday, when I turned 27.  I really love birthdays; it provides a perfect opportunity to plan something special, out of the ordinary and truly fantastic which I am lucky enough to say was the case on my birthday this year.

My very wonderful husband planned quite the dichotomy of adventures to celebrate my special day.  The first part was an overnight kayak trip where we paddled down a 7 mile stretch of a creek in the Congaree National Park which fed out into the Congaree River where we camped on a sandbar.  We set off on Saturday afternoon in our new 14 foot camo colored boat stocked with an 8 pound tent, one sleeping bag, two coolers full of water and beer, one Lunchable snack, trail mix, two peanut butter sandwiches, lots of bug spray and our dog, Gunner.  The creek was flanked by dense forrest which thankfully provided tree covered shade throughout our journey.  The water was calm and inviting and our boat glided through it like a knife slicing softened butter.  In many parts around our boat, we could spot garfish swimming through the water, some of them at least three feet long.  The unwelcome animal spotting came when we ducked below a fallen tree, only to notice mid-duck that a snake was lying just inches from our heads...

Unfortunately, we have had some very severe storms in the Columbia area recently, which we did not take into consideration when we planned the trip.  The storms had caused many trees to fall across the creek, oftentimes blocking our path and making it frustrating and difficult to maneuver.  One such time we had no choice but to get out of the boat and walk it around the obstruction.  I swung one foot over the side and hopped out where I promptly sunk up to my thigh in mud.  You can probably imagine I was not too pleased by the encounter with the thick, slimy, brown substance.  The unexpected sinking caused me to lean forward where I all but planted my face in the gooey grossness.  At first I yelled out, then had no choice but to laugh through the ensuing battle with the mud.  I finally made it the twenty feet around the fallen tree, but not after sinking both arms and legs and flailing less than gracefully through the fight, all the while my dog prancing beside me, too light to sink down in the mud... it's good to be a dog sometimes.  When I made it back to the boat, I took one look at my better half and we both lost it in laughter.

It took us four and a half hours to reach the river, at which point we were quite exhausted and ready to set up camp before the sun started to set.  We found a beautiful sandbar and set up our tent beneath the shelter of the tree-line.  Gunner lost no time exploring the small beach, darting in and out of the water which thankfully was clear with a hard sandy bottom.  It was the perfect place to spend our overnight adventure, we sat on that beach with no one in sight and it seemed as if we might be the only two people (and dog) that had ever been to that place.  The peaceful and beautiful night reflected the perfect start to a great birthday weekend.

Part two of the southern birthday extravaganza came Sunday after we had paddled down the river to where our car dutifully was awaiting our return.  The highlight of the river portion was spotting wild boar on the shoreline at two different points.  The first time was a mama boar with her three babies munching away at the grass on the shoreline.  For at least five minutes they were blissfully unaware of our presence; when mama boar did notice us, the babies ran off, she turned towards us and grunted and snarled before running into the safety of the woods.  I was very happy that thirty feet of water was between us and the protective pig.

Once we had carted our gear home, given Gunner a much needed bath and cleaned up ourselves, we headed to Charleston for a night in the charming city.  Charleston is a beautiful town, and this was my third visit.  It's almost like stepping back into Antebellum; the homes have beatufiul wrap-around porches and gorgeous trees that line the streets, many of which are cobblestone or brick.  Upon arrival, we strolled along the bayfront and wound through the streets, admiring the different homes and breathing in the salty ocean air.  Summer has definitely arrived here in the South, the temperature reached 100 degrees both days we were there, so a stroll in the sunshine has taken on a whole knew meaning.

Dinner was a delicious array of seafood (my favorite) at a restaurant established back in the 1800s.  As we sat enjoying the food prepared for us, I thought about how earlier that day I was floating down a riverbank.  Truly two very different lowcountry experiences.  The next day (my bday), we again strolled the quaint streets of Charleston and stopped for lunch at Poogan's Porch where there is a statue of the scruffy canine Poogan with a plaque below it, RIP 1970-1979.  It was a charming old house turned restaurant and we sat on the porch beneath the fans in the 100 degree heat.  It was all worth it the minute they brought out fresh biscuits with sweet butter, followed by our order of fried chicken salad and an oyster po'boy.  Gunner sat panting beneath my chair but I'm certain he felt it was worth it when I tossed him a piece of the buttery biscuit.  Birthdays are great.

The three of us were quite spent from the heat and all the birthday excitement so it was time to depart Charleston and travel back to Columbia.  I loved the contrasting events of the weekend, the time spent on the creek and the river and even in the mud as well as the time spent strolling through the streets of Charleston and eating the delicious lowcountry food.  It was a very memorable birthday filled with sights, sounds, smells and tastes that will be imprinted on my mind for years to come.  

are you a writer?

Do not be too timid and squeamish about your actions.  All life is an experiment.  The more experiments you make the better.  What if they are a little course, and you may get your coat soiled or torn?  What if you do fail, and get fairly rolled in the dirt once or twice.  Up again, you shall never be so afraid of a tumble.  ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

"Hi, I'm Rachel," I said while extending my hand forward for a greeting shake.

"I'm Elizabeth, nice to meet you.  So... are you a writer?"

I turned the question over in my mind.  How should I answer that? I like to write, but I don't necessarily make a living doing it... I blog - does that mean I'm a writer? Do you have to have a finished product in hand to call yourself a writer? Like a book or magazine article?

The question wasn't just out of the blue, or out of context for that matter.   The introduction took place at a writer's conference in Atlanta this past weekend.  The conference consisted of about 100 other women, mostly from the Southern or Northeastern region of the U.S., all of us either hoping to become published authors, improve our writing or market our current writings more effectively.  To be frank, I surprised myself by signing up for the event.  It was a risk.  I had no idea how good the conference would be, who would be in attendance, and if I would get anything out of it.

I decided that if I didn't push myself to learn, grow and develop as a writer, than I was doing a disservice to myself and stunting myself in what I truly love to do.  So Saturday morning, I checked my ego at the door and confidently hung the conference badge lanyard around my neck, committing to myself that I would attend every session, take notes and try to get the most out of the day.  It turns out, the conference far and beyond exceeded my expectations.

As I listened in each session to various speakers talk about writing, marketing and how to move yourself forward as an author, I felt energized, invigorated and motivated.  By the same token, I also had the realization that it is a self-motivating job.  No one will check behind me to see how much I've written this week, the next or for the month for that matter.  If I want to be a writer, it's up to me to push, take risks and produce.

My favorite speaker of the event was the author Emily Giffin, who has five published novels, her first of which has been made into a movie that is currently in theaters called Something Borrowed.

Emily Giffin's Website

Ms. Giffin was honest, and forthcoming in her advice about becoming an author.  "You just have to start.  Start putting words down on the page."  It was perhaps the most fundamental and simple piece of advice, but it was what I needed to hear.  

I'm grateful to Skirt! magazine, who put together the wonderful conference.  Skirt! Website  

This weekend I learned that I am a writer, I love to do it and there are endless possibilities ahead of me if I continue to take risks, put myself out there and just write.

a different kind of dating

When I met my husband four and half years ago, I was confident that I would never go on a date again.  I was wrong.  What I didn't consider then was that I would most likely have to date for the rest of my life.  I'm not talking about romantic dating; instead, I'm referring to dating to make friends.

I moved to South Carolina a year and nine months ago without knowing anyone.  It was the first time in my life that I moved somewhere and didn't already have friends to call up to go shopping with, get dinner with or to just come over to hang out.  I went to college with friends I knew from high school and I moved cross country and lived with friends I knew from college.  Each new place I had moved, there was already a network of people that knew me and who I had a previous relationship with.  This move was different.

It became apparent to me very quickly that is is tough to make friends.  Sure I can sit down next to someone and introduce myself, "Hi! I'm Rachel!" Which I have proclaimed often paired with a big toothy grin.  There might be an ensuing conversation about where we are from, what we do for work and what side of town we live on.  The small talk gets really good when dogs come up - I've learned they are like children, people can talk about them for hours (including me).  After the commonalities and chitter chatter die down... then what?! I've run into this several times.  Do I get her number? 


Okay so the first meeting went great, we exchanged phone numbers and leave asking myself: did I just make a new friend? Just like romantic dating, the phone number is a tricky game.  Caution should be taken not to appear over-eager or quite frankly, desperate.  It's also important not to abuse a phone number, there's such a thing as too much contact.  Nowadays, there is less pressure with the prominent use of text messaging.  This way, there doesn't need to be awkward conversations or long silent pauses.  A simple text will suffice to set up a "second date".

The second meeting is in my opinion, more challenging.  Having covered all the basics and background information, this is where the friendship either starts or fizzles to an end.  Yep, as early as the second date.  I've been caught several times sitting across from my "date" in an awkward silence, both of us scrounging for a question to ask or something to say.  Even worse is when the awkward stare happens, you know when you both blankly look at each other as if silently saying "I got nothin to say..."

In several instances my husband and I have even dated together - yep, couples dating.  One time after meeting another couple I was sure we would have commonalities with and similar interests, I instead went home disappointed.  "I don't think we'll hang out with them again," I lamented to hubby.  "Did you notice they didn't ask us anything!"  In another couples first date we left the restaurant where we met for drinks elated and quite giddy.  "They were great! So much fun! I hope they want to get together again!"  Yes, it's true, couples dating is real and just as tricky as one-on-one friend dating.

In all seriousness, I've met some great people in my time living in this new town.  It has taken effort, time and an open attitude.  Sure, they don't know my quirks and eccentricities off the bat, but they will with time.  In no way can I replace all the wonderful and dear friends that I have in my life from my past, but I have high hopes that wherever life takes me, I'm sure I'll make some life-long friends and look back and laugh about our "first date".

"The only way to have a friend is to be one."
- Ralph Waldo Emerson

13.1

I rounded the bend and looked up at the white sign with the large black number 8 displayed across it.  Below the sign there were people cheering words of encouragement and praise to the perfect strangers running by.  There were several thoughts going through my head as I listened amongst the noise to my slightly labored breathing.  I was a bit surprised it wasn't a harsher and deeper heaving at this point, but the fact that it wasn't produced some confidence that I could do this, that I was going to finish and complete my goal.  My arms swung by my side in tandem with my feet as they hit the pavement in calculated and even movements.  I looked up from beneath the shade of the visor I was wearing, to my horror, there was another hill ahead.  With a deep breath, I murmured some words of encouragement to myself, pursed my lips together, narrowed my eyes, and resolved to just keep running. I had 5.1 miles to go.

Running a half marathon has always been a goal of mine.  It was one of the things on my "list".  You know, the list you have full of things you want to accomplish in life.  Things that are out of the ordinary and that provide sheer joy when you know you can put a check next to the item - the feeling of wow, I actually did that.  The half marathon was one of those things for me.  I've never really been a strong runner, I would consider myself more of a recreational runner.  I took up jogging in college mostly because our gym at school was usually too crowded and I figured if I lived on the beach I would be doing a disservice not to figure out how to exercise and enjoy the beautiful outdoors.  Three to five mile runs became my sweet spot, it was a perfect stress reliever and way to clear my mind, no equipment needed.  I could lace up my shoes and head out the front door and run for as long or short as I wanted.  A half marathon is 13.1 miles, about three to four times as far as I typically run.  Completing one would no doubt be a challenge for me, which is why I wanted to do it so bad.

When my best friend informed me there was a half marathon in Nashville, Tennessee, and that it was a Country Music half marathon, we both knew that it was our calling to sign up for the race.  My mom and husband signed up as well and in the months before the race we offered each other encouragement to keep training and kept a buzz of excitement that we would be traveling to Nashville to run with 30,000 people in a marathon/half marathon race.  I started training on longer distance runs about three months before the race, but to be honest, was quite terrified for the impending event.

On race day we all woke up excited and a bit nervous.  At least I know that had nerves welling up inside of me... my biggest enemy in training was myself.  I tend to talk myself out of the ability to run long distances, complaining that the weather is too hot, I'm overheated; some days it was my shoes which were cramping my toes, producing blisters that made the run that much more difficult.  Other days it was just flat out me convincing myself that nine miles (or whatever distance we were running) was way too far for me to humanly run (I can be quite dramatic...).  When race day came, the most miles I had run at one time in training was 10.  I had to add 3.1 to that to finish the race.  As we entered the coral together, waiting for the announcer to signal our official start, I gave myself a silent pep talk.  You can do this, I thought in my head.  No excuses, this is your chance to just do it.  The Nike slogan took on a new, more important meaning.

The four of us stretched together and jumped up and down to warm our blood as we waited to begin.  Finally it was our turn to, crossing the start line was invigorating, exciting and a bit daunting.  Only 13.1 miles to go! The four of us quickly split up from each other as we each ran different paces.  So it was me left with my thoughts to run the long and hilly course.  The only races I have run in the past are a few 5k races and one 10k race.  This one was entirely different.  Being a music half marathon, there were bands positioned throughout the course playing pump up music to motivate us to just keep running.  I absolutely loved the camaraderie of running a race like the one we did.  Amongst 30,000 people there is a sort of team spirit, that we were all running together towards the same finish line (well I was running towards the 1/2 marathon finish, those poor marathon runners had a much longer road).  I was delighted at how many people were on the sidelines throughout the course.  Granted many were there to cheer on a loved one as they trotted by, but those people would also cheer for perfect strangers.  It was motivating and wonderful to have people encouraging and supporting one another.

As I ran I had fleeting moments of serenity (in between the sheer pain of running up hill after hill), there is something quite therapeutic at taking in the moments when you are experiencing something new, something challenging and something that has pushed you further as a person.  When a guy dressed up in a full spider man costume ran by me, I couldn't help but laugh.  Here I was, fretting nervously about whether I was going to be able to finish the race or not, when some people chose to take the situation more lightly.  As the group of racers I was running alongside rounded mile twelve, an eerie quiet ensued.  All I could hear was the sound of rubber soles on the pavement and the breathing in and out of runners.  The last mile was perhaps the toughest, not only because at least half of it was uphill, but because at that point it took whatever energy I had left to push through to the end.  When I saw the finish line, I picked up my feet and ran as fast as my body would let me to the finish.

I felt exuberant, energized, and proud.  I had finished running 13.1 miles, I had forced myself not to stop and had completed my goal.  The experience made me really think about setting goals, and working towards something you want.  Ironically, when I got home from the trip, the official rejection letter from grad school was waiting for me in the mail.  I didn't feel frustrated or sad this time, instead, I just felt a weight lifted off.   I had just set a goal that was entirely up to me and completed it; to me the letter coming right after completing my challenge was "you win some, you lose some" played out in real life.  I initially thought the half marathon would be my first and last; but after such a gratifying experience, I might re-think that notion after all.

The Masters: A non-golfer's experience

The Masters: it's synonymous with the great names in golf, perfectly groomed and maintained grass, the Masters green color, Augusta Georgia.  A few weeks ago, I was lucky enough to attend one of the practice rounds.  I wasn't sure what to expect before going.  For one, I am not a golfer; in fact, I've never golfed before or even been to a driving range.  There are a lot of people who would probably cringe and scoff that I had the audacity to attend part of the Masters and didn't instead relinquish my ticket to a more worthy tournament goer.  No way! I wanted to see what all the hooplah was about.

I attended with my my husband, my dad and my father-in-law.  All three of them are golfers, so there I was, the uneducated rookie with a miniscule amount of knowledge in golf terminology.  There were only a select few golf words that I dared utter.  "Why did he put his tee there?" (yes I knew what that white peg in the ground was).  "Hmmm, they don't yell FORE! when then drive the ball down the green? (good thing I whispered this one, I don't think the pros ever use that term...)  While at the tournament I learned that the few words I knew are only the tip of the iceberg in golf lingo.  Words like fade are used meaning the ball goes to the right down the green and draw when the ball curves to the left.  There's a whole slew of other terms specific to the game to describe what's happening.  I'm not sure I understand why golf has to have a language all of its own.  Seems to me it would be easier to simply say the ball went left or right.  Maybe I just feel that way since I'm not a golfer...

I have to say, walking the Augusta National course was an experience to remember.  The weather was sunny and beautiful, perfectly highlighting the bright pink azalea bushes that kissed the edges of each perfectly manicured green.  The trees seemed as if they were plucked from perfection and planted in exact spots where they would provide the right contrast between the blue of the sky and the green of the course.  The course itself was something to marvel at, it seemed the perfect grass was an exact hue; I'm sure there are specialists whose only job it is to make sure it is always pristine.

The phenomenal natural setting was not the only thing to notice at the Masters, the people in attendance provided entertainment as well.  They came in all shapes and sizes wearing all types of outfits and getups.  When a man walked by with the most outrageous shorts on I couldn't hold my laughter in and definitely lost it when I noticed he was alongside a woman with matching ensemble.  I wondered, did he set that ensemble aside to specifically wear to this event? I would have to assume most definitely, he did.  The Masters was a circus of people, all there to show face and experience one of the greatest tournaments in golf.

On the other side of the white rope were the pro golfers on stage.  As we were at the practice rounds, it was a more relaxed and laid back atmosphere.  Many of the pros would engage with the crowd, take multiple shots on a green and even play around with the game, performing trick shots only further highlighting their talent to place that tiny ball wherever they wanted.

There's one more thing I can't avoid mentioning about the Masters.  At a tournament where the first place prize is a cool $1.4 million dollars and even 15th place gets a prize of $128,000, you can buy a beer in a souvenir cup for $3 and a sandwich for $1.50.  Now here's one sporting event that has it right.  There isn't any professional sporting event I can think of that keep their prices so modest and reasonable for the fans.  Last time I was at Yankee Stadium in New York I'm pretty sure I spent $9 for a bottle of Bud Light and $7 for a mediocre hot dog.  At the Masters, I happily sipped my ice cold beer and munched on my pimiento cheese sandwich for a total of $4.50.

For those that don't know what pimento cheese is, I would urge you to seek it out and try it.  Here in the South it's served as an appetizer that you dip chips in, on sandwiches as a spread and even atop burgers.  It's a blend of cheddar cheese, pimentos, mayonnaise, salt and pepper and sometimes other ingredients depending on who is making it - in short, it's a really bad for you delicious treat.  That's enough of my food digression, the point is, the Masters didn't make me think about the hole burning in my pocket, but instead allowed me to indulge and happily spectate the pros on the course with a full belly.

I loved my first Masters experience; but in all honesty, I will probably relinquish my ticket next time so a true golf fan can enjoy the fantastic event.  In the meantime, maybe I'll head out to the driving range and take a crack at swinging that shiny stick at that tiny white ball.

Dog Days

Four hours, a 5 pound bag of food, a leash, a collar, pee pads, two chew toys, pepper spray for the furniture and a 25 pound golden fur ball later - we were dog owners.  I'll admit, at first my excitement at having a new puppy faded in and out, often times morphing into a tinge of shock and even disbelief that we actually went through with adopting a dog.  It's one thing to say it over and over again - I would love to have a dog, I wish we could get a dog -  it's an entirely different feeling to actually do it.  The first night I felt like oh crap, no turning back now.  Maybe I felt that way as an effect of cleaning his poop up off the floor, or shoving him off the bed in the middle of the night when he tried to commandeer all the covers.  There's no doubt that owning a dog is a big commitment and not to mention a lot of work; and me being the overly rational person that I am, had a tough time making the plunge.

It was a Thursday afternoon that we decided to go look at dogs at the adoption center.  It wasn't the first time we had done that, in fact we had stopped by the previous day even and something drew us back to look again and little more seriously.  With no exageration, we spent four hours looking at different dogs, taking many of them out to play with, trying to find the one that seemed like a good fit. Picking out a dog is unlike any other process I can think of.  Picking out a dog at an adoption place creates an even greater challenge characterized with uncertainty.  How do you know what the dog will be like in a different environment? How can you really tell their age or who its parents are?  There are so many wonderful dogs that are in need of a home so how do you decide?  Should we get a puppy or a full grown dog?

Then we found Gunner.  We had noticed him in the first few minutes as we circled through the cages filled with puppies and dogs of all shapes and sizes.  I had fixated on an Australian shepherd puppy with dewey eyes and a spunky personality.  We took her out to play and were instantly exposed to her limitless energy and apparent athleticism.  The adoption counselor shied me away from the dog saying she really needed a big yard with lots of space - not a good fit for our apartment dwelling lifestyle.  We spent the next three hours looking at a few older, full grown dogs and a sheltie mix puppy who was anything but interested in figuring out who we were.

Just as we had resigned to leave, deciding that perhaps our dog just wasn't there that day, we went around one more time to look at Gunner.  His fur is smooth and golden, ears flop over framing his almond shaped eyes.  His tail flips up and is dipped in white, matching his four white paws.  We picked him up and took him for a walk.  He trotted alongside us and when we stopped, flipped over so we could rub his belly before rolling onto his stomach and stretching his legs out behind him.  No doubt this dog was a mutt made up of undecided breeds.  After short deliberation, we decided that he was the one.

So Gunner came home with us and it has been two weeks of learning to live life outside a kennel.   I often look at him and wonder what he is thinking.  The first five months of his life were spent in cold and damp pens or cages, most likely minimal human contact and probably not enough exercise.  One day these two people grab him up and take him into their world.  He's scared at new sounds, noises, buildings and experiences but is slowly coming to realize that we are here to help him and give him a good home.   Unsurprisingly, he has taken quickly to the lounging lifestyle of carpeted floor, air conditioning and lots of love and attention.  It's fun and rewarding to watch Gunner look at things for the first time.  When he rolls in the tall grass, wags his tail with delight while vigorously gnawing on a bone, or trots up to me and lays his head in my lap I feel pure joy and happiness that we brought him home that Thursday afternoon.  I'm sure there will be trials and tribulations to go through with Gunner, but we'll take it one dog day at a time.

a disappointing moment turned beautiful

Disappointment can have many different faces.  It has been evoked in me because of another person's actions; like when a promise was broken or a pact was not kept.  I have felt it internally when a personal goal was not met, when something I was striving to reach faded into the distance.  And I have felt it towards other people; when someone I was counting on was not truthful, let me down or mislead me.  Through these experiences I have learned that disappointment is an emotion that prompts reflection, questioning and a search for reason.

I most recently felt the pangs of disappointment when I found out that I would not be accepted into the MFA in Creative Writing masters degree program I applied to.  The rejection didn't come as a formal letter in the mail, (at least it hasn't yet) instead, I received a premature email correspondence from the head of the program.  I'm not sure which outlet to break the news would have stung more.  In the email, words were used such as "you are unlikely to wind up with an offer of admission", "I am very sorry to deliver the bad news" and "I'm telling you unofficially so you can plan accordingly".  It was explained that there was simply a very large number of applicants to fill only a few spots and due to the program being fully funded and the school not having a whole lot of the funding to give out they could not offer up more spaces.  

My first emotion when reading the email was disappointment. What happened next I can only describe as a sinking feeling that washed over me followed by a small pit forming in middle of my stomach as if my body were demanding a physical manifestation of the blow.  I honestly didn't expect to receive an email like the one I got back; but then again, I'm not sure what kind of email I was expecting to receive.  The natural thoughts that arise in the wake of rejection came flooding to me: could I have submitted a stronger application? did they hate my writing? how many other people really applied? Perhaps what is most frustrating about rejection is not having the answers to any of those questions.

To help myself reason and find solace with this rejection, I thought of other instances it could compare to like the ending of a relationship.  How often times one person is left confused and unable to make sense of the break up. Unable to figure out why the problems became too great and what could have been done to achieve a different outcome. I also thought about the process of applying for a job that you don't get hired for.  When the news is delivered that the company will be hiring someone else over you the same types of doubts and disappointing feelings come up.  This is most like applying to school - it's a matter of who you are up against and how badly they want you in one of those coveted spots.

I realize this isn't the first time I've been disappointed or faced rejection and I know that it will certainly not be the last time.  I feel disillusioned and I still wonder what if the outcome would have been different and I would have gotten the acceptance letter in the mail and been thrilled with fulfillment at my accomplishment.  But that was not my path, and instead of wallowing in the faces of disappointment, it is my decision to look forward.  

There is an artist named Brian Andreas (http://www.storypeople.com/storypeople/Home.do) that I really enjoy.  Browsing through his pieces I came across one that seemed fitting to share.  I realize that this might have seemed like a more somber blog and I just want to state for the record that yes, I was disappointed (if you couldn't tell by now), but like Andreas' piece points out in a more artistic way - there are so many beautiful moments and memories in life to concentrate on and take notice to.  I know there are such moments that I have experienced already and moments that have yet to come for me.  I think that it is necessary to experience the sad, disappointing and rejecting moments in life to fully realize and appreciate the beautiful ones.

California Dreaming (Part 2)

Looking out my window, the scenery had dramatically changed.  The last part of our trip seemed almost a dichotomy to the first.  We left the more rugged and unadulterated terrain where all that separated us from the ocean was the narrow two lane road we traveled on, and we entered the more populated and inhabited bay area via the 101 - a five lane highway packed with cars and trucks in a hurry to get wherever it was they were going.  We met my grandparents at Oakland Airport where we returned our fabulous white Kia Rio rental car.  I'm disappointed now that I didn't think to take a picture of the go-cart that carried us up the coastline.  There wasn't anything automatic about the car, not even automatic locks - I still catch slack that I never did pass the test to reach over and open the drivers side door (oops!).

They took us to the small waterside town of Benicia, a quaint and charming place that was actually the State Capitol for 13 months from 1853-1854.  Many of the old buildings are preserved and walking down the street it's hard not to imagine what this little town was like when it was the capitol of such a great big state.  After lunching at a little cafe, we were lucky enough to visit my grandmother's art studio.  Her space is in a warehouse building that previously housed artillery.  I always love going there and am amazed at her talent in putting paint on canvas producing a beautiful symphony that only she could create.

We left the charm of Benecia and journeyed on to Walnut Creek, where my grandparents live.  It had been several years since I had been to visit and I was amazed at how much the town continues to explode with new shops, restaurants, arts and recreation.  With only a fifty minute BART ride into the city it's no wonder the town wasn't kept a secret longer.

After a great visit in Walnut Creek, I was excited and had a lot of anticipation about our last stop in our road trip adventure: San Francisco. I hadn't really spent much time getting to know the city in the past, even though I grew up in California.  We drove in over the Bay Bridge which, much like Manhattan's bridges, drops you right into the pulse of the city.  We wound through the city streets while my grandfather pointed out the many highlights to each area we drove through.  For me, the peak of the tour was a stop at an overlook with sweeping views of the city below.  I felt a sense of awe looking out across the city; it was a unique view and perspective that not many places can offer.  The city stretches 46.7 miles and is the second most densely populated city in the United States - and there I was staring down over all of it.

When traveling to any city, what I love best is exploring it on foot.  And that's exactly what we did.  From Union Square we walked through China Town, a very unique area of the city with market after market dotting the sidewalks and crowds of people milling about their daily tasks, unbothered by us tourists walking through the streets.  On one block we heard school children singing from an open window above and I thought about how much I was enjoying seeing the city and new things while all these people around me were just going about their daily routines.  We walked on through Fisherman's Warf, and then up through the marina area.  I was taken aback at how steep the city is, literally.  No need for stair-master or a gym, all you need to do in SF is walk.  There were many times I found myself at a 90 degree angle, bent over in attempt to make the steep climb a bit easier.  As we continued on meandering through the streets, one thing that stands out in San Francisco are the houses.  The architecture is beautiful and often times breathtaking with Victorian houses lining the streets, tall and reminiscent of an earlier time period that is preserved in the buildings.

Now one thing I was on the hunt for during our visit to SF was a great bowl of Cioppino.  For those that don't know Cioppino is a fish stew, it was made famous in San Francisco and as I am a HUGE sea food lover, I knew I had to go on the quest for a great big bowl of it.  We found a place at Fisherman's wharf, ordered a beer and glass of wine respectively and waited for the bowl of deliciousness.  The waitress brought it out and let me tell you, it was all I thought it would be and more.  I probably sound a bit silly with how passionate I was about this bowl of food.  But really, I love food and this was something I was really looking forward to.  It arrived and it was massive complete with an entire crab that had been stewed in a savory tomato based broth.  We sat for a good hour cracking the crab and relishing in the wonderful flavors. It was a great San Francisco moment, delicious and perfect.

A last highlight of our time in San Francisco was our bike ride over the golden gate bridge and into Sausalito.  From our starting point at Fisherman's Wharf, we biked up the very steep hill to the start of the bridge.  It was a crowded ride but beautiful no less.  The bridge is grand and impressive, definitely assuming prominence in the bay over any other structure.  On the other side we descended another very steep and winding hill into the small waterside town of Sausalito.  From there we decided (actually I decided) that I wasn't up for pedaling back up the huge hill we rode down so took the ferry back over to the city.  As we passed by the Golden Gate bridge for a different view of the structure, I had to inhale a deep breath and smile at the beauty and charm of this great bayside city.  Lucky for us the boat took a small detour and passed us right by Alcatraz Island which I have to say looked quite ominous even in the setting of a bright and sunny day.

When it was time to depart from San Francisco, it was a bittersweet goodbye.  As I said in the last post, I did have a sort of love affair with the city; with it's delicious culinary offerings, the quaint areas with steep and narrow streets lined with Victorian homes, with the sweeping scenic portraits that points of the city offers to the many views of the bay that can be seen from all over the city.  I felt that we were leaving on a high point which is always a great way to leave - to feel like we saw so much, did so much and loved every bit of the vacation.  I know that we'll be back to California many times again but this trip will forever be a very special one which is why from time to time I'll be dreaming of California.

California Dreaming (Part 1)

I held my breath as our car hugged every curve. Not because I was scared but because I was anticipating what lay ahead. Each turn yielded a new exceptional view of the coastline.  I wondered how the road we were driving on was still in tact and hadn't fallen into parts of the Pacific with the ocean's waves below crashed unforgivingly into the side of the cliff asserting its dominance as part of the natural and beautiful world we live in.

Our trip had a simple goal: to drive up the California coast from Los Angeles to San Francisco spending as much of the drive as possible on Hwy 1, a highway that hugs the coastline boasting dramatic and picturesque views of the Pacific.  I wasn't quite sure what to expect from this drive.  I had heard that it was beautiful, that it was well worth the extra time it takes to use this route rather than the major interstate to travel north.  But what I found was that it far surpassed any of my expectations.

Our first stop on the trip was Santa Barbara; a place that holds a special meaning for me since I spent four years there getting my Undergraduate degree.  I felt nostalgic walking around the downtown area, admiring the Spanish architecture of the buildings and the hillside dotted with houses that faced sweeping views of the ocean.  As we stood on the pier and admired the sinking sun that was slipping behind the hills casting pink and orange rays through the silhouettes of palm trees, I thought about my time in the town and admitted to myself that I probably took the beautiful setting I studied in for granted - if even just a little.

As we traveled on up the coast, I couldn't help but think about how "new" California is.  It was only established as a state in 1850 as part of The Compromise of 1850.  Compared to South Carolina which declared its independence from Britain and set up its own government in 1776 or New York which was admitted to the United States in 1787 or Illinois which became a state in 1818, California has a much younger history as a U.S. state.  I thought about what early settlers must have thought of the coastline.  You can look out across the Pacific for as far as the eye can see and it's hard not to wonder what's going on across the ocean, or what lies beneath the surface for that matter.  I expected Hwy 1 to be littered with beach town after beach town - who wouldn't want to live in such a picturesque place? But this was not the case.  Much of the drive consisted of our car flanked by countryside and ocean - vast unadulterated scenery.

Next stop was a small town called Cambria.  A person could easily fall in love with the charming town and gorgeous coastline.  Seals are abundant here hanging out in the waters near the shoreline, bobbing up and down with the ebb and flow of the tide and waves that encompassed them.  We left Cambria to head further up the coast in search of a famed Elephant Seal beach.  We were lucky with the time of year we were visiting since the seals had just given birth and had migrated to the protected shores to raise their pups before braving the dangers and threats of the ocean waters.  We arrived at the beach to find hundreds of them sprawled out across the sand and sometimes across each other.  These creatures are quite phenomenal with females weighing in at 1,500 lbs and males topping the scales at 5,000 lbs.  They throw their weight forward just to gain an inch or two across the sand simultaneously putting out strange noises.  I couldn't tell if they were languishing in frustration or if it was some kind of strange mating call they were serenading to each other.  Either way, they were a sight to see and seemed blissfully unbothered by the crowd of people that were staring, gawking and taking their photograph.

We finally pried ourselves away from watching the animals in their natural habitat and ventured further north en route to Big Sur.  This was perhaps the most scenic portion of the drive.  The highway made hairpin turns as we climbed up and then sped down the carved out road in the mountains and we marveled as we passed over several bridges built in the 1930s.  The land seemed as if it remains untouched with cows grazing fields that extend from the road to where they kiss the edge of the water.  (These cows don't have a clue they have the best views for miles around).  Once in and around Big Sur, the scenery changed slightly to where I realized I was now in Northern California.  There are beautiful big Redwood Trees that create forests and provide an aesthetically appealing contrast to the blue of the ocean.

It was bittersweet leaving the Big Sur area.  In part because that meant we were halfway done with our adventure up the coast.  The next stop was to be Carmel; before arriving in the quaint town that was for a brief time the state capitol and also has claim to fame because Clint Eastwood served as mayor of the town.  This is also the place where the famed Pebble Beach Golf Course makes its home.  To me, the most exciting leg of this trip was a visit to Point Lobos state reserve.  In one short hike we witnessed a group of four gray whales right off the coast, passing by as part of their migratory route they travel each year.  We were also lucky enough to see seals and sealions playing in the coves and an otter snacking on what we think was a crab.  There's something quite serene and even magical about seeing animals in their natural environment. Instead of viewing them in cages, eating hand fed fish or playing on artificial rocks their playground is the expansive blue waters of the ocean that are often times rough and choppy, cold and salty but beautiful and immeasurable.

The last two legs of our trip were a stop in Walnut Creek, in the bay area and to round out the adventure, a stay in San Francisco.  I had my own love affair with San Francisco and it's hilly streets, delicious food and victorian style homes.  But that is for a different story.  For now I just want to relish in the beautiful Hwy 1 drive, the scenic views, the seemingly untouched territory, the quiet calm and steady breeze of falling asleep to the crashing of waves.

To be continued...