We stopped Randy briefly in SF to pick up a few more amigos, witness the debauchery of Bay to Breakers, and soak up SF's fantastic vibe (it's fast becoming one of my favourite cities). But quickly I wanted to be back on the road, especially as we were heading up to wine country.
When we stopped in Santa Barbara I thought it was Arcadia personified, but I was wrong. Napa steals that title easily. The valley has a unique microclimate perfect for growing grapes. Early in the morning, cool, moist sea air sweeps in off the ocean just 40 miles west, and dumps its languid humidity on the valley. Then through the morning, as the heat builds, it burns off fog to reveal brilliant blue skies. Temperatures hover around 80 degrees, not to hot, not to cold. This grape-growing mecca has produced a bounty of vineyards and master viticulturists, attracting swarms of thirsty day trippers as well as seasoned wine snobs.
The crew spent a day in Sonoma tasting the zinfandels of Martinelli (fruit forward and powerful) and the bubbly of Korbel (average - stick to the real stuff), and then cruised up to Napa to sample the single-terroir cabernets of Nichel & Nichel (strangely earthy, each distinctive) and the delightful pinots and blends of Pine Ridge. If in town, I highly recommend the buzzy Mustards Grill (we drank a delightful bottle of Prisoners) and Taylors Automatic Refresher where you can eat burgers to die for under big oak trees.
19 May 2009
15 May 2009
Big Sur, CA
Randy trundled up along Highway 1, hugging the cliffs to my right and shying away from the steep drop to my left. The road twists and turns, following the vagaries of the hauntingly beautiful Big Sur coastline. Like most of the northern California coast, fog sat in a dense blanket a few miles offshore threatening to envelop us in its dense, dewy paws.
Big Sur has inspired generations of artists, writers, and other nature lovers, and leaving aside the freaky new-agers selling twaddle dressed up as art, it's not hard to see why. It reminded me of the harsh northwest Scottish coast. Its rugged isolation is awesome. Nature battles nature as the steely black swells smash into jagged rock crags. Sea birds surf the stiff breeze and hunt amidst the kelp blooms. Man - like elsewhere in America's great outdoors - feels insignificant, a mere speck of dust in the earth's geological history.
14 May 2009
Santa Barbara, CA
This gem sits on the shores of the Pacific, about an hour north of LA. Fog swirls in and out from the ocean. Palm trees stand in long solitary lines, guarding the beach front. The buildings are single story and stucco, tastefully painted and fringed with red brick. Behind the town, the hills climb and dip off to the horizon.
Residents and tourists wander the cobbled pavements, window shopping with a latte in hand. Santa Barbara feels like Arcadia personified. It's warm and balmy; the weather is always good. The food is fresh and tasty, as if plucked straight from the field or ocean. The people are bronzed, relaxed, happy, and generally retired. Sitting back sipping a cold Modela Negro as the sun sets, it's hard not to be seduced by California's gentle embrace.
13 May 2009
Los Angeles, CA
LA is hard to put into words. There are too many contrasts hitting you all at once. How do I describe the fabulous feel of West Hollywood where hotel pool lounge areas are covered in blue Astroturf whilst a trolley-wielding hobo sits outside shouting obscenities at a lamp post? Or the azure blue sky and tumbling surf that frames the hippie's RV installed as a beach front castle down on Venice Beach?
Ebba meets Paris: I like your shoes
Ebba and and I are eating at Koi, a sushi place on La Cienega. Serge joins us for some sake and edamame. Ebba disappears to powder her nose and comes back brow furrowed, a little surprised, perhaps confused - I can't tell.
"I was washing my hands," she explains, "and this blond girl comes out of the stalls next to me. I was thinking 'That's Paris Hilton!' but I couldn't tell. Then she turns and yes! It is Paris! She starts striking a pose front of the mirror and adjusting her hair, checking her teeth, straightening her top....
"She turns to me: "Are you having a good time?" I'm a little suprised Paris is chatting to me, but I say: "Thanks. The food is so good. I ate too much!" "Oh, I like your shoes!" she blabs. I wanted to tell her my shoes were from Aldo, but I couldn't. "My shoes are killing me," she continues. "They rub my legs". I look down and see that she's wearing knee-high F-me boots. No shit, I think. And then she sails out, high as a kite"
Culver City: Fruit for everyone
But LA isn't just the glitz of Hollywood and the perfectly manicured lawns of Beverly Hills. I travelled down to Culver City one afternoon with Ariana (a local) and Ebba. We stopped off at the farmers market and ambled through the stalls for an hour or so. There was the pretzel man serving up deliciously salty breads. The fruit sellers had mountains of sweet, juicy strawberries. The orange growers chopped up 12 different varieties for us to try: navel oranges, pink grapefruits, tangerines, and more. California's incredible farms were on full display - the heaving tables of cilantro, carrots, and cucumbers testimony to bountiful soil, water, and plentiful sun. A Rasta played regae version of nusery rhymes (imagine Bob Marley singing "itsy bitsy spider"!) as kids bobed back and forth. And down the end was an ingenious popcorn stand: a huge cauldron into which the chef poured enormous amounts of corn, salt, and sugar. It all swirled together in a delicious pop, pop, pop!
This was laid-back LA. A place where the community vibe still mattered. A place where people could connect to their food, and through vegetables and fresh juice to eachother. The sprit of the swinging 60s lingered all around the market. This was, I realised, the perfect antidote to LA's scene; Culver City's superficial alterego was just down the road on Sunset Boulevard.
City of Angels
LA feels like the city of dreams. It is anything to anybody at anytime. It's a place where all can aspire, vagrants can hide, and everyone can remake themselves. Every waiter could be the next Tom Cruise. And although thousands have been crushed, it's irresitable to imagine that you just might make it big. And that's a good thing. It's what America is founded on. But with so many potential falling stars, I was also happy that this was the City of Angels.
Ebba meets Paris: I like your shoes
Ebba and and I are eating at Koi, a sushi place on La Cienega. Serge joins us for some sake and edamame. Ebba disappears to powder her nose and comes back brow furrowed, a little surprised, perhaps confused - I can't tell.
"I was washing my hands," she explains, "and this blond girl comes out of the stalls next to me. I was thinking 'That's Paris Hilton!' but I couldn't tell. Then she turns and yes! It is Paris! She starts striking a pose front of the mirror and adjusting her hair, checking her teeth, straightening her top....
"She turns to me: "Are you having a good time?" I'm a little suprised Paris is chatting to me, but I say: "Thanks. The food is so good. I ate too much!" "Oh, I like your shoes!" she blabs. I wanted to tell her my shoes were from Aldo, but I couldn't. "My shoes are killing me," she continues. "They rub my legs". I look down and see that she's wearing knee-high F-me boots. No shit, I think. And then she sails out, high as a kite"
Culver City: Fruit for everyone
But LA isn't just the glitz of Hollywood and the perfectly manicured lawns of Beverly Hills. I travelled down to Culver City one afternoon with Ariana (a local) and Ebba. We stopped off at the farmers market and ambled through the stalls for an hour or so. There was the pretzel man serving up deliciously salty breads. The fruit sellers had mountains of sweet, juicy strawberries. The orange growers chopped up 12 different varieties for us to try: navel oranges, pink grapefruits, tangerines, and more. California's incredible farms were on full display - the heaving tables of cilantro, carrots, and cucumbers testimony to bountiful soil, water, and plentiful sun. A Rasta played regae version of nusery rhymes (imagine Bob Marley singing "itsy bitsy spider"!) as kids bobed back and forth. And down the end was an ingenious popcorn stand: a huge cauldron into which the chef poured enormous amounts of corn, salt, and sugar. It all swirled together in a delicious pop, pop, pop!
This was laid-back LA. A place where the community vibe still mattered. A place where people could connect to their food, and through vegetables and fresh juice to eachother. The sprit of the swinging 60s lingered all around the market. This was, I realised, the perfect antidote to LA's scene; Culver City's superficial alterego was just down the road on Sunset Boulevard.
City of Angels
LA feels like the city of dreams. It is anything to anybody at anytime. It's a place where all can aspire, vagrants can hide, and everyone can remake themselves. Every waiter could be the next Tom Cruise. And although thousands have been crushed, it's irresitable to imagine that you just might make it big. And that's a good thing. It's what America is founded on. But with so many potential falling stars, I was also happy that this was the City of Angels.
10 May 2009
Grand Canyon, AZ
If I were a condor high above the Grand Canyon, I'd imagine it looks like a huge fissure running through the barren desert. As I swooped lower, I'd see that the yellow rock and green pines on the rim give way to cliffs of deep red hued sandstone, shrubs, and fine dust. As I fell deeper into the crack, I'd feel the temperatures building and that thousands of cacti dots were replacing bigger bushes, the reds giving way to white sands. Then as I approached the bottom of the slit, I discover an emerald green sliver snaking its way along the canyon floor. The Colorado River! That tiny trickle created this mess?! Extraordinary!
The Grand Canyon is one of those hard-to-believe natural phenomena which is difficult to comprehend even once seen. The views from the rim across the 10 mile gap and down into the 4000 ft chasm are stupendous. Its rock walls glow softly blue during sunrise, melt into a stark white after midday, and give off a golden glow at dusk. Condors circle on thermals whilst desert squirrels burrow into the juniper trees.
Hiking down into the canyon is a serious feat. Descending the popular Bright Angel Trail to the Indian Garden oasis takes roughly 2.5 hours. It's another hour to the river and about 30 minutes out onto Plateau Point. As you descend it gets gradually hotter; it's not unknown for it to be 15-18 degrees at the rim and 35+ degrees in the canyon's bowels. But going down is the easy part. In a cute inversion of Newton, the Park Ranger's quip: "what goes down, must go up". From the bottom, the canyon walls look like an impenetrable fortress. It's impossible to see where to exit. The heat is debilitating; I could feel the moisture evaporating from every pore in my body. Plodding up the dusty mule trail is sadistic - a sandy version of Stair Master. It seems never-ending.
But of course back on top some 3+ hours later as the ice cold brew slips down my throat, it doesn't seem so bad. I can brag about the standing on the edge of the 600 ft cliff staring at the gorgeous Colorado just a stone's throw below - a place few of the ice-cream-gobbling day trippers in the Rim Zoo can imagine visiting. Of course, I'm pathetic compared to the "desert hikers" who hump giant backpacks of gear into the canyon to camp out beneath the stars. But I'm happy to have been to the bottom and back. Being so small and so insignificant in something so monumental and so large, is magnificent enough for me.
The Grand Canyon is one of those hard-to-believe natural phenomena which is difficult to comprehend even once seen. The views from the rim across the 10 mile gap and down into the 4000 ft chasm are stupendous. Its rock walls glow softly blue during sunrise, melt into a stark white after midday, and give off a golden glow at dusk. Condors circle on thermals whilst desert squirrels burrow into the juniper trees.
Hiking down into the canyon is a serious feat. Descending the popular Bright Angel Trail to the Indian Garden oasis takes roughly 2.5 hours. It's another hour to the river and about 30 minutes out onto Plateau Point. As you descend it gets gradually hotter; it's not unknown for it to be 15-18 degrees at the rim and 35+ degrees in the canyon's bowels. But going down is the easy part. In a cute inversion of Newton, the Park Ranger's quip: "what goes down, must go up". From the bottom, the canyon walls look like an impenetrable fortress. It's impossible to see where to exit. The heat is debilitating; I could feel the moisture evaporating from every pore in my body. Plodding up the dusty mule trail is sadistic - a sandy version of Stair Master. It seems never-ending.
But of course back on top some 3+ hours later as the ice cold brew slips down my throat, it doesn't seem so bad. I can brag about the standing on the edge of the 600 ft cliff staring at the gorgeous Colorado just a stone's throw below - a place few of the ice-cream-gobbling day trippers in the Rim Zoo can imagine visiting. Of course, I'm pathetic compared to the "desert hikers" who hump giant backpacks of gear into the canyon to camp out beneath the stars. But I'm happy to have been to the bottom and back. Being so small and so insignificant in something so monumental and so large, is magnificent enough for me.
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