A Nip In Napa

I just got back from California, trekking down the state these past eleven days, freezing my backside off ‘cause I thought it only got cold in San Francisco but the rest would be sunny and warm like the Beach Boys’ promised.

Huge mistake.

We drove into Yosemite under a silent snowfall, watching the white flakes glittering against the blue sky and settling like frosted crystals on the ubiquitous evergreens and stately redwoods.

That should’ve been my first clue. The second was getting out of the car.

“It's May,” I wanted to inform Mother Nature, but she obviously didn’t receive her newest park calendar.

So I hurriedly bought a quilted vest to layer somewhere on my body as we hiked out to see El Capitan, “the chief,” the tallest mountain in the park, a forbidding gray rock of granite looking down at all the rest. (Photo above)

While my husband snapped the usual array of redundant pictures, the mountain from a side view fifty-five times before taking eighteen steps to the left and getting that angle too, we saw others attempting to climb the sheer stone, scrambling like ants from the ground and sleeping inside the jagged crannies midway to the top.

I breathed a sigh and thanked God for not giving me the “mountain climbing gene.” I got the neurotic “clean grout one,” which I’d take any day over the “Everest-Capitan” crap.

Well, we were certainly ready to get on the road and relax in Napa Valley, passing thousands of grape trees before stopping at Korbel Winery.

Korbel said they brewed champagne, though they knew full they’re not suppose to call anything champagne that wasn’t made inside the Champagne Region of France.

But either Korbel forgot the rules or the Champagne police were sleeping off a bender ‘cause nobody squawked when we were offered free samples of their bubbly brew.

Totally outside of character, I gushed down the contents of the first and then gulped the next two.   Gee, I couldn't remember what the guide called it because my head was lolling, and I was doing some of that rapid eye movement you’re only supposed to perform in certain stages of sleep.

Good thing I wasn’t the designated driver.

Well on to the castle of William Randolph Hearst, the media mogul who by 1919 made ten million a year before the creation of income tax and social security, and that wasn’t counting the billions he would inherit from his parents’ estate.

This castle was only one of 36 homes.   I wonder if he knew all his addresses, servants names, and how did he answer that most basic question, “Where do you live?”

Maybe nobody asked him.

We drove down to San Diego.

On the way I saw a maze of pastures, the ocean—blue-green waters, white waves crashing against the shore, malls, skyscrapers, grand hotels, old missions, mansions, and hovels too.
And everywhere, people smiled.

Sometimes it’s important to make a point.  Sometimes life’s just sits there and offers a front row seat.  If you get a chance, grab it, sit back, and enjoy the view.