Of oysters, banks and beaches, Part 2

I’ve slurped down my share of raw oysters, tasting that delicate brininess before the slimy mess slithers down my throat. Those experiences are usually followed by this thought: Why did I just do that?

They don’t have anything on the straight-from-the-sea monster oysters we had in Bodega Bay. Served on the half-shell, steamed and served with a light drizzle of garlic butter, these are as fresh as they get.

These don’t get to be slithered; these guys are cut through like butter and savored piece by piece.

I get it. Not everyone’s an oyster fan. These sea creatures have a lot of haters out there.

So on with the other monsters of Bodega Bay: the birds. Or, rather, the birds.

So much has been done already to Bodega’s image by the Alfred Hitchcock movie The Birds. It’s funny that the killer black birds shown in the movie are found everywhere. Seeing one of these land nearby still brings up a movie image of the birds attacking the woman in the phone booth (what’s a phone booth?).

Their beady yellow eyes aren’t too friendly these days either.

Years ago, the movie was Bodega Bay’s claim to fame and the bird-kitsch here went crazy. Like phone booths, the movie is fading from memory. This cute seashore town has moved away from the kitsch and remade itself into a place to escape from the big city. It’s a pricey, resort-y and reasonably quiet spot to watch the waves, sip a little wine and if, so inclined, tip back a few oysters.

The monster-hunting weekend wasn’t complete until I saw one of the monsters of the deep. And so we journeyed on through the town, around the Bay and up to the headlands. Above the cliffs, we faced the Pacific and it wasn’t moments before one and then several whales spouted. It’s prime whale watching time on the north coast as these giants head back to the cooler Alaskan waters for the summer. We walked and pointed as spout after spout went up that day.

The headlands were also a great spot to witness a little comic relief. Seals leaped out of the water as they headed to and from a large rock island just off shore. The rocks were coated with seals and their barking could be heard all over the Bay.

Does that barking come from joy or jealousy? Are they calling to a mate? Whatever was going on, it was happening with enthusiasm.

Of oysters, banks and beaches, Part I

I’m passing by a thousand shades of green. Lime and mossy grasses, peppermint hills, rich chai shadows, and olive stands of oaks. The only break in this color palette are the Jerseys, sheep and goats that dot the fields and hills.

My attention is split between the hypnotizing scenery and Google Maps. Where the heck am I?

The ultimate destination is Bodega Bay. But faced with $600/night hotel prices there, I searched farther afield and found a unique alternative. We are staying the next couple of nights in a bank. A former bank. Complete with teller windows and a vault.

The bank is in a blur of a town called Tomales. Not even half a dozen businesses here, even if you count the white steepled church.

It’s not hard to find our accommodation for the weekend. The sign high above the door reads “Not a bank.”

Inside, we find an artist’s loft. Baby grand piano. Funky art. Tall ceilings.

For no extra charge, there’s a bar right next door.

We spend 10 minutes walking from one end of the town to the other, slowly. There’s a nursery that propagates its own native plants. Friendly natives invite us to stroll through their greenhouses and we do. We chat with them about greenhouse materials and they happily oblige. Strangely, they already know that we’re staying at the ‘Not a bank’. And we haven’t been in town more than a half hour. Small town, right?

An early riser, I’m up the next morning seeking coffee as the sun brightens the horizon. The town is deserted and filled with the kind of silence that makes you hear it. The only movement comes from across the street, where inside a tiny bakery, a pastry maestro is behind the counter rolling out dough. The cases are filled with rows of options – crisp and soft, raisined and cinnamoned. At this point, coffee becomes secondary.

There is no seating inside the bakery but this is the community center. Outside are benches and chairs and by the time we’re ready to start our day, the area is full and the bakery cases have emptied. No matter. We've been there already.

Unexpectedly, we find that there’s a beach route accessible from Tomales. Dillon Beach is a long stretch of sand just five miles west of Tomales, up and over a winding hill. A cluster of vacation homes huddle at the entrance and then it’s all beach and dunes. We watch dogs catch Frisbees and surfers catch waves. My neck turns bright red as we walk and walk.

Bodega Bay was the destination but Tomales is the memory that lingers from this weekend.

What was just supposed to be a quirky overnight location turned into one of those ‘finds’ you want to keep to yourself.

Shhhh.

'Yachting' 101

Airbnb has got my attention. This is the business that enables people to rent out a room, their home, or pretty much anything that others will pay to sleep in. I stayed in someone's basement for a week. Cozy, tidy, simple, perfect.

The other day I saw what looked like a broken-down van touted as an option. I passed on the van.

There was this yacht, though… I mean, how many times are you able to rent a yacht for the weekend? In tony Sausalito, nonetheless.

So you know the story about air travel and what happened when it became accessible to middle-income folks, right? Air travel went from being a luxury experience to being trapped in a metal tube with screaming children. Being of the middle-income sort, then, what could I expect from a yacht that I could afford?

My expectations for our weekend didn’t include caviar and a butler, and let’s just say the experience sparked quite a discussion about what constitutes a yacht.

No.

No.

Yes, however...

Our place didn't look like that one. It was a bit more modest and had seen better days.

Turns out an alternative definition of 'yacht' is any sizable motorized boat meant for pleasure cruising. The definition doesn’t include any reference to age or condition, or even whether ‘motorized’ refers to a past or present state. It doesn’t say whether a hot shower can be expected.

Even so.

There was a deck on top where we climbed with a bottle of wine and crusty sourdough bread to watch evening settle over the Bay. Coots and pelicans fished for schools of herring in the marina and sea lions rolled in the water, surfacing here and there like randomly scattered whack-a-moles.

Across the water was San Francisco and at the end of the dock was Sausalito. We watched the lights pop on in multimillion-dollar residences up the hill as the light faded into night. Later, I faded into sleep amid the gentle roll of our rented ‘yacht’ and the chime of sailboat riggings around us.

A few years ago, I rented a fire lookout in northern Idaho as a weekend getaway. We drove five hours, half of that on unpaved fire roads that wound up and up and up. We got lost far from cell service and GoogleMaps. Reread the directions and finally arrived.

Perched on stilts, five stories above the top of a mountain, I climbed steep stairs to a one-room 360-degree view of endless forest. At night, in a region that Lewis and Clark once found nearly impassable, a carpet of lights lit up the sky.

There were no bathrooms, no running water, nothing but bare dirty mattresses on wooden platforms.

I could have stayed there forever.

These unique experiences enrich my life and help me appreciate how happiness isn't found in perfection or the absence of bad. It's found somewhere in the balance of good and bad.

It’s hard to be upset about our ‘yacht.’ I love the sense of adventure that comes with using Airbnb. But I do have a good ‘buyer beware’ story.

Unfortunate cookie

The morning is crisp, air is clean and 2015 is dawning shiny and new. But the fortune cookie I received over the weekend nibbles at my confidence.

Should I be worried?