Breakfast at the Ripplewood Resort's restaurant, located right next door to Glen Oaks. The "Little Sur" omelette with fresh roasted green chiles and sliced avocado, hash browns so crispy they shattered between my teeth, whole wheat toast. On every table next to the ketchup is this Pepper Plant sauce. Habit-forming stuff. As I was leaving, a steller's jay fluttered in, landed on my table and with one grand gesture grabbed a little plastic cup of half and half and flew off with it in his beak. The waiter said they love anything white, eggy or dairy-based. Even the birds have attitude in Big Sur!
A drive to Pfeiffer Beach, a walk under primeval trees and into wind and sandstorms that I thought not possible. I still have sand in my hair, in my pockets, probably up my nose if I checked. It's embedded in my very skin, coming home to Nashville with me. The surf was incredible, the purple sand too.
Big Sur Bakery and Restaurant. A lil bit pricey but worth each and every bite of this garden fresh (and I mean fresh) salad. Quite the destination -- have read about this place for years. It didn't disappoint.
...Neither did the art fest that is always unfolding on the same property known as the Big Sur Spirit Garden. The proprietor and creator whom I met (named Jayson Fann) also builds these "Spirit Nests." He said that they offer artist residences and that if I ever wanted to come live in Big Sur for a while and make art that he'd give me a nest to sleep in and a paintbrush to use. Okey.
I had to stop and take a picture of this bridge I had just driven across because I sure as hellfire wasn't going to look down while atop it. Sweat was pooling in my shoes, if you catch my drift...but it was awesome.
I don't know if you notice it right away but I did...all of a sudden, a gorgeous, sun-filled afternoon was threatened by a wall, a WALL, of clouds stretching as far north and south as I could see. Not a fun prospect when driving the PCH, especially when it brings whipping winds along with it. But it turned out to be gone in a matter of an hour or so. Typical.
Amidst the fields of artichokes and spinach and the citrus groves, there was a teeny little sign propped up against a pepper tree that said "U-Pick Strawberries, Quarter mile." Had to do it. Met the stand manager named Martin, in a wheelchair and wearing lumberjack plaid. We talked about how he has to keep a .22 to ward off the Steller's Jays up in the peach orchard. He loves his job. And I loved my $2 baskets of ripe plunder.
As you may have determined, the drive to San Francisco kinda took it out of me. Wine, berries and the last of my almonds served as dinner, forget finding a restaurant. I tried to stay awake to post some things, but I fell asleep while downloading photos. With my contacts in. Again. Shell shock is all I can call what I felt when I finally found my way to the hotel. EEEsh. I was so grateful to be clunking my door shut and dropping the bags one more time. A heavenly thing for a road-weary girl.
