When Life Hands You Conductive Mud, Make a Road Trip

This morning I awakened to news that much of Berkeley was without power. Why, you may ask? Well, it rained for about twenty minutes this morning -- a gentle, summer sprinkling that nonetheless freaked out the natives, since it apparently Does Not Rain here in the summer months. It was not enough rain to wash away the dust, mind you, but it was apparently enough to turn the dirt on the power lines into conductive mud (I know!) and short out all the power lines. I love California. Even its mundane problems are grandiose and goofy.

So, faced with the fact that many of the places I needed to go to run errands were out of commission, I decided instead to light out for the metaphorical territories and spend the day reminding myself why I love California and why I'm so happy to be here.

I drove north along I-80 and the Bay, coming over the crest of a hill just as the sun started to break through the early-morning mist and fog. With the fog hanging low around the base of San Francisco across the Bay, it looked like a fairy-tale palace, a city in the clouds.

I made my way over the old iron bridge and into the Napa Valley as the sun came out full force, warming up the tidal pools and highlighting the sugar cane factory and the rolling hills as I drove up into the wine country. My windows were down and my radio was up, and the air blowing through my hair smelled like baking bread -- a combination of the warming earth and the rosemary and lavender planted amongst the vines in the fields. I stopped at a local bakery/deli for coffee and a fresh-baked roll and then followed whatever back lanes appealed to me, until I found myself over in Marin County and following a path straight to the sea.

The air was crisp and cool, and I took a long, long walk on the beach with my shoes in my hand and my pants rolled up around my knees. The Pacific was beautiful and wild, and bitingly cold as I dipped my toes in. There were seals sunning themselves on distant rocks, and seagulls cawing, and a heron dipping out of the sky to skim the water. There were old women practicing Tai Chi at the flat entrance to the strand, and a group of elderly Asian tourists, all wearing hats made of newspaper, exactly like the little boys do in illustrations of Robert Louis Stevenson poems. It was hysterical.

I stopped to grab some lunch and had planned to drive right back to Berkeley, but was thwarted by a giant truck that cut me off at the exit for my bridge. Instead, I found myself shuttled onto the Golden Gate Bridge, which was wreath in fog so thick that all I could see was the very tops of its posts, but as I hit midspan, the fog thinned and lifted, presenting San Francisco spread out before me, sparkling in the distant sun. It was like being given an unexpected gift. I even managed to find my way across the city and back to the Bay Bridge without getting lost, getting a crash course in a few of the city's many, many Victorian neighborhoods in the meantime.

Even though it's taking longer than I'd like for me to settle in, I don't think I'll ever regret my decision to move. Every day I wake up and think how lucky I am to be here -- how much I love my adopted town, and my cozy little house. I feel like I've been given a chance to start fresh, and see the world through new eyes.

Who knows, I may end up tucking flowers into my hair and wishing you all "good vibrations" any day now.