Saturday, October 4, 2014


What people say about Bali is true. The tropical island in the Indian Ocean is really magical, but you can't see the magic in the pictures we took. Instead the magic is in the air, and also in the smiles of the people who live there. The magic is ingrained in the Balinese culture, similar to what we experienced when we traveled to other countries, where Buddhism and Hinduism are inculcated into people's lives.

You feel the magic the minute you meet the driver who greets you at the airport with a sign that has your name on it. There is something very comforting to arrive in a foreign land, after what seems like days of travel, and see your name written in big bold letters on a white sign that a stranger is holding up. With palms held close together and with his head slightly bowed, our driver, Kutuk, dressed in traditional Balinese clothing, made us feel as though we were coming home to the land that we loved, not going on a vacation to a place we'd never been to before.

We were slightly shell shocked and exhausted from 24 hours of travel squeezed in the back of the giant plane sitting in seats that we all know as coach. And yet, after arriving at Amori Villas, high in the mountains above the town of Ubud, and feeling the warmth of the people who worked there and the tranquility of the scenery around us, we quickly bounced back. We felt like someone had infused us with a big dose of energy. Although we can no longer call ourselves true honeymooners, Bruce had reserved the honeymoon suite, which didn't really surprise me because he's such a sucker for outdoor showers. Everyone at Amori greeted us like long-lost friends -- Rick and Peta, an Australian couple who own the mountain resort and their Balinese staff, like Mosie and Avi, made our three-night stay one of the most luxurious experiences we've had in a long time.

Our visit to Bali was really a stopover on our way to Australia, but after only a few hours, we realized that this spectacular place deserved more than just a short visit. The next time we will try and come for a couple of weeks. With only three nights and two full days, we crammed a lot in, not taking adequate time to relax and swim in the infinity pool at Amori or explore the charm of the small village down the road.

Instead, on the first day we hiked the Campuan Ridge trail, which took us up the hillside on dirt paths, through acres of bright green rice fields, and finally back to Ubud on a busy paved road that included a couple of very steep hills. If I had been on my bike, I definitely would have had to walk it. Trying to find the Ridge trailhead, which essentially started very close to a Hindu Temple, where a special ceremony was going on, was our first adventure. Not wanting to miss any of the ceremony we witnessed from the bridge above, we quickly put on the paisley print sarong and purple sash that our hosts had loaned us to wear, since this traditional dress is required for entry into temples. This gave us a good laugh as we struggled to properly wrap the three yards of fabric, so we wouldn't trip on the long hem while walking down the steep steps to the river to witness the ceremony below.

It seemed that our trip to Bali not only happened at the same time as the famous Ubud Festival of Writers and Readers that is held every year, but it also coincided with several religious events around the revered Saraswati, the Hindu God of Wisdom and Education. So, In addition to the streets being filled with foreign visitors on vacation and writers and readers from around the world, the local kids were also out of school. For the next several days Balinese people would be coming to and going from the many temples to make their offerings to the worshipped God, Saraswati. Incense filled the air, drumbeats and bells rang out, and chanting could be heard from the temple by the river. Although wearing a sarong was essential in order to get close enough to simply take pictures, we were told that the ceremony was off limits to tourists, and that it was time for us to move on. That worked fine with us because the sun was becoming very hot and that, along with the humidity of the tropics, made us feel sticky and drippy, and we hadn't even begun our ridge loop walk. Since I wasn't wearing my Fitbit device, which determines how many miles we'd walked, all I can say is that other than stopping to take pictures and to share a bowl of Indonesian noodles at a small cafe in the rice fields, we walked continuously from 10:30 am to 4:00 pm. The Lonely Planet guidebook said the trail was 8 kilometers, but someone at the hotel told us that it was 24 km. All I can say is that we definitely walked more than 8 km and no way did we do 24.

On our second day in Bali we thought we'd take it easy by hiring a car and driver to drive us around to see the sights, since the price to do so seemed very reasonable. Ha, Ha, taking it easy. What a joke. Seeing the sights near and around Ubud meant plenty of walking, and a long climb down and up 350 steps to view the Puranas Gunung Kawi, not including all the walking we did at the ancient temple site itself. And I must tell you that this was done in the high heat and humidity wearing three yards of fabric that hung down below your knees and under which you wore a pair of already sweaty shorts. Another well known site we visited was the Tirta Empul or also known as the Holy Water Temple, where we walked, and watched myriads of people bathe in the healing holy waters, and fill plastic jugs to take home to their families. Friends of mine in California actually participated in the bathing ritual when they visited Bali a couple of years ago, and even though the cool water would have felt great against my hot and sticky skin, the idea of spending the rest of the day in wet clothes did not sound very appealing. Instead I looked forward to returning to the air conditioned car. We also visited some of the wood carvers in the adjacent village of Mas. Although we were open to buying something if something special caught our eye, we, unfortunately left the town of Mas empty handed. Not the least bit deterred, we later combed the streets of Ubud looking for shops and galleries that had the perfect mask to add to our tribal collection at home. And voila, we were successful. I'm not sure how many miles we walked on day two, but we walked a lot -- maybe not as many miles as the day before, but pretty darn close.

I am writing this post while flying to Australia. In a couple of days we will be exploring the wild Kimberly Coast on a small 50 passenger catamaran ship. I don't know how much Wifi we will have, but stay tuned. The adventure continues.............

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Sunday, September 21, 2014


Five days before my New Hampshire trip,  I could feel myself getting antsy.  What if we run out of things to talk about?  What if our political beliefs differ.  Maybe she's a born again.  Or even worse.  What if we don't like each other?  

These questions filled me with anxiety as I packed my bag and thought about the days ahead, when I would finally meet up with my long-lost, best friend from elementary school.  Long-lost is probably the best way to describe our relationship because that is what it was -- long lost.  Fifty years to be exact.


Janet and I had deep roots.  She and I connected in the sixth grade, although we'd seen each other earlier when her family, who lived a few hundred miles from us, came to visit the Melnicks, their relatives, who lived in our rural town of Littleton.  Her uncle, Mr. Melnick, owned the best shoe store in town, and his family lived down the hill from our house.  When Janet visited,  we would play on the swings in Remich Park and build snow sculptures in the winter.   When we were in the sixth grade, her family moved permanently to Littleton, but her teacher was not the same as mine, so we didn't see much of each other that year.    She was quiet, timid, and shy, so rather than boldly announcing to me here I am, she stayed in the background and watched me play with other kids.  Things changed in seventh grade, and although neither of us remember how it happened, we became best friends.    Back then you didn't introduce someone as one of my best friends.  You would put your arm around her and say, I want you to meet my best friend.  I had only one, and her name was Janet.

I had some anxiety about seeing Janet in person.  Last year I wrote about finding her in a post entitled Nostalgia, and since then, we've emailed back and forth, asking and answering questions, and even though I thought we were probably on the same wave length, I didn't know for sure.  

On that Friday when my plane landed in Manchester, I called Janet's cell to say I had my bag and would be waiting out in front of the terminal.   She giggled when she said she was driving a big black Mercedes, and the giggle I heard sounded like the Janet I used to know.   I pushed my way through the double glass doors and spotted the Mercedes.  Leaving the motor running, Janet jumped from her car to greet me.   I could tell from the red blotches on her face, and the way she gripped me as we hugged, that she was as nervous about seeing me as I was about seeing her.  In fact, we decided to find some place to stop, have a cup of coffee and calm down because we both were shaking so much.   It didn't take long for us to feel comfortable with one another, almost like teenagers who talked about their future like we used to, but this time, as we stared into each others eyes, the only thing we could talk about was the past.

There are more than memories here, I thought to myself.   I looked down and saw that the three silver bracelets Janet was wearing were almost identical to the three silver bracelets I was wearing.   I remember when we were kids, we made a tiny cut on each of our fingers so we could rub our blood together and call each other my sister.  

It was about a two hour drive from Manchester to Littleton, where we were spending the weekend together and staying at what was once called Perkins Motel.  When we arrived in Littleton and checked in to the motel my parents used to own,  I thought it was strange that I  felt no emotion for a place I had lived from age 11 to 17, and where my memories ran wild.  I even wrote about it in a blog post  Motel Musings #1.   Ironically, the woman who worked the front desk remembered my parents and my sister and brother.  "Your parents would cry if they saw this place now," she said.   "It's not the same anymore. "   She went on to say that the former owners of Perkins Motel fell on hard times and let the place run down so badly that the bank took it over in foreclosure.   But there were new owners now. 


After dinner that evening with two elementary school friends, Cynthia and Karen, who were still living in town, Janet and I returned to our room at the motel, and even though we shut off the light and said goodnight several times, we continued to talk for hours.  No matter what we said, we saw the parallels in our lives,  not so much in what we did during the last fifty years, but more about how similar our core values were and our mutual desire to grow as human beings.  We each turned adversity into a positive force in our lives.  Our curious personalities drove us to become readers and world travelers.  Having been forced to be financially self sufficient, we realized that we both had a strong inner drive to succeed. 

Janet may have been timid and shy as a youngster, but as an adult she is strong, optimistic and courageous.    In recent years, the love of her life, David, has developed Parkinson's disease, but yet she and he have done everything they can to remain positive, stay current, and not let this disability affect their love for one another and their family.   If anything they love each other more, but have learned to do everything they can now and not take anything for granted.  While Bruce and I are fortunate to be reasonably healthy, I share Janet and David's desire to do everything while we still can and not take our good life for granted.      


 The next morning Janet and I strolled up and down Littleton's Main Street, even visited the new history museum, but I was not as emotional as I thought I would be.  Maybe it was because of all the physical changes.  With the exception of the iconic town hall, the Littleton Diner, and the old but sturdy brick post office, the place had changed quite a bit.   Even a candy store filled the big space where Parker Drugs and soda fountain used to be.  I wondered how anyone could, in good conscience, sell tons of sugar to already overweight people, even though the soda fountain where we hung out was famous for their syrupy cherry cokes.   Trendy boutiques and an art gallery occupied the space where Melnick's shoe store used to be, and the space that was once McLeod's department store was now called something else.  McLeods always held a special place in my heart, especially those few weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas when Santa Claus was in town.   All of us kids would stand in line in the basement of McLeods waiting to sit on Santa's knee to tell him what a good girl or boy we had been.  Meanwhile, our mothers shopped upstairs uninterrupted.   Also on Main Street there were small, brightly painted pianos placed on just about every block, and I thought about Mrs. Wright, who for years taught piano lessons to most kids in town.   She would have loved those miniature pianos.

Downtown Littleton was a buzz with energy on Saturday morning.  Tourists were playing on the miniature pianos,  and a beer fest and art fair were being set up near the dilapidated grist mill on the edge of the Ammonoosuc River.  I was happy to see Lahouts Country Clothing and Ski Shop still in its original location up on Union Street in Apthorp, a section of town some called the other side of the tracks.  But today Lahouts has more than just the Apthorp store.  They have several retail operations in other parts of town, proving what my Mother said was true.  "The Lahouts are a hard working family and, like us, work 24/7 in the family business.

I asked Janet if we could stop at Lahouts and check out the place. While she amused herself inside, I talked to Joe Jr., who remembered my family and told me that his dad, Joe, Sr. still lived  upstairs over the store, where he was born 94 years ago.    For as long as I can remember, Joe Sr. ran the store with his colorful sister, Gladys.  While Mom would  kibitz with Joe, Sr. about stuff I didn't understand, Gladys would take me in the back and dress me up in a latest ski outfit and try to talk me into a new pair of boots.   As we walked up the back stairs,  Joe Jr. warned me that his Dad might not be as sharp as he used to be but that he had aged well.   "Don't be surprised if he doesn't remember you," Joe Jr. said.    I didn't care.  I just wanted to see him again because he and his sister made a big impression on me as a kid, and I used to love hearing him and my mother talk about life in the old country.  You see, the Lahouts were Lebanese and my parents were Greek, and although Lebanon and Greece don't share a common border, their cultures are similar enough, so their relationship was special.  Not many people in Littleton could or would eat kibbeh.

 When Joe Sr. shuffled out into the kitchen holding on to his son's strong arm, I was surprised at how emotional I became, and I found myself choking back some tears that I didn't want old Joe to see.  I was so happy that he was still a handsome looking man, but his son was right, he didn't remember me or my Mom.  Instead, he surprised me by saying  he remembered old Mr. Perkins, how shrewd a business man he was, and how much he admired him.   I was surprised because I don't remember my Dad ever shopping in Lahouts, only my Mother and I, but obviously my father's strong business sense and outgoing personality carved a groove in Joe's brain, so he remembered my Dad after all these years.  He and I were very chatty.  He reminded me of the good old days, and how life in Littleton used to be when I was growing up.  He cautioned me to be careful riding my bike and also urged me to stretch every day to keep my body limber and strong.  I didn't stay long, but seeing Joe again at 94 was like going back in time, when my Mom and I would shop at his store.

Our childhood friends Cynthia and Karen's participation in Janet's and my weekend was very meaningful and emotional.   On Saturday evening, while we were talking together over dinner,  several facts emerged that made us question the concept of  randomness and coincidence in our lives.  It certainly begged asking questions about why I came to Littleton that particular weekend, and why Janet and I sought them out as people to confide in.  Some might call it coincidence.  Some might say it's the way the universe works.  I don't know what to call it,  but here's the thing.  When a few people from my past, with whom I've had no connection with for the last fifty years, suddenly come into my life and become very connected to me, it does make me wonder.  I think my three childhood friends will agree that some things in life are too strong and too strange to be called a coincidence.  

Sunday came way too quickly and it was time to leave.  Our last few hours were enjoyed with a $5.95 bacon and eggs special at Topic of the Town Restaurant with our friends, their spouses and others we knew from the good old days.   Having Sunday breakfast together may be a ritual for some of the Littleton crowd, but for me the gathering was something much more symbolic.  It was the culmination of a sentimental weekend in Littleton with my best friend Janet, and a reawakening of a friendship that will last forever.   It was also a reaffirmation that I have a special bond with my childhood friends that goes beyond description.  My three days with them closes the circle of a friendship that began many, many years ago.  In closing I want to send a public message to my dear friends -- Janet, Cynthia and Karen.   You have enriched my life by helping me remember the fond memories of our childhood.  I will always feel close to you for reasons you will understand. 


Friday, September 5, 2014


  • I popped open the umbrella and rode her to Mars.

  • The day started when I closed my eyes and found myself in love.

  • My favorite dessert is a a mothball covered with chocolate sauce and sprinkled with sand pebbles.

  • The dentist cut out his nose hairs with pruning shears.

  • When the phone rang, I logged onto my computer and saw my deceased mother on Skype.

  • I couldn't tell what time of the day it was until my hands touched your face

  • I drove up to visit you in my hardtop strawberry and saw you covered in vanilla ice cream.

  • When I brought the cold glass of water to my lips,  it turned into absinthe.

  • I closed my eyes and saw the most beautiful picture of a blank wall.

  • I like washing white clothes better than dark because the results are more obvious.

Tuesday, August 12, 2014


My Sunday mornings at the Mountain View Farmers Market aren't just about shopping for healthy fresh food.  It's much more than that.  For me the market is a vibrant community, where kindred spirits greet each other like neighbors living side by side in small town America.   I'm not just talking about the shoppers; I'm also talking about the farmers, who are becoming my Sunday friends.  


Connecting personally with the farmers is something I really enjoy.  For an extrovert like me,  getting to know the farmers by name  and developing a relationship means a lot because it makes the food on my plate actually mean something and even taste better.  It is my nature to ask a lot of questions  -- Where is your farm located? How much acreage do you have?  How many crops do you grow?   What are you doing water-wise now that we are in such a severe drought?   Their answers are important to me because I'm not a farmer and can't put myself in their shoes.  I'm not even a gardener.   You see, I've never put seeds in the ground or planted anything I could eat, so I have enormous respect for the hard work these farmers do, and what they are able to accomplish, with or without the help of Mother Nature.   


Take the two sisters, Joyce and Lucianne, who share a bit of my Greek heritage, with some Armenian thrown in as well.  Their farm stand is called Sweet Annie's, and because of their close-in location at the market, it's the first place we stop.  Our early arrival enables us to have time for a little chat, and sometimes even a hug.  We've even looked at their photo album showing pictures of the farm and their colorful chickens pecking away in the open field.   For several years,  I mistakenly called Lucianne Annie, until she graciously told me one day that her name was Lucianne, and that Annie was the name of her mother.  Joyce and Lucy always have big smiles on their faces, laughing about why one week their hens lay small eggs, and other weeks the eggs are gigantic.  "Blame it on the weather, "  Lucy tells me, and considering they live in the hot Central Valley town of Clovis,  I believe every word they say.  "Hey, Joyce," I holler out.  "Can you pick out the perfect cantaloupe for me to eat today or tomorrow?"  After scanning the table quickly with well-trained eyes,  Joyce hands me a golden cantaloupe that smells really sweet right through its thick skin and says, "You can tell this will be candy sweet because of its beautiful color." 


Even in the peak of summer when the market is in full throttle, like it is now, most farmers manage to squeeze in a little time to talk to shoppers about what they are buying or answer questions about how to cook this, or what to do with that.  Even the Asian farmers who grow produce about which I know nothing never make me feel dumb.  They very politely answer my question when I hold up a giant bunch of weird looking greens and ask, "What is this?"   


Kelly, who sells vegetables grown at Country Rhodes Family Farm in Visalia, explained that they are known for their outstanding tomatoes.  The striped German tomato I tasted last week was fantastic, and the juicy red and yellow cherry tomatoes were delicious in the penne pasta I made with chunks of fresh lobster meat, garlic, shallots, and fresh basil.   Recipe will be sent upon request!


Silvia Prevedelli from Prevedelli  Family Farm in Watsonville is another example of a super farmer, the kind of person who is more committed to educating than selling.    Her outstanding produce speaks for itself.   Silvia's main goal at Sunday's market is to talk to her customers, to inform and educate.  She not only wants you to understand the difference in the large variety of apples she grows, but how each one differs in taste.   One of the things I admire about Silvia is her deep commitment to the profession of farming, and her passion for agriculture education.  In keeping with her dedication, Silvia and her family are involved in a fundraising effort to establish scholarships with the express purpose of educating future farmers and encouraging young people to enter or continue in the vocation.   An example of this is the fundraising farm dinner she and others are hosting at the Prevedelli Farm in Watsonville.  If you click on their website under their highlighted name above,  you will find detailed information on the fundraising dinner scheduled for September 28, 2014, and specifics about how to buy your tickets.  I have already bought ours, and if you live close by, I hope you will consider attending too.


Another delightful farmer I would like to single out is Donna Shebelut, who drives two hours from Madera every Sunday in the summer months to sell her delicious peaches, pluots and plums.  What I enjoy about Donna is her passion for her exceptional fruit.  Here's my advice.  Believe whatever Donna tells you.  She knows her business, and if you don't think her peaches are the very best, then do a side-by-side comparison taste test and find out.  We did exactly that, and now we are loyal to Donna and buy most of our peaches from her.    In addition to her humor, she has a sharp wit, and she always has something to teach you.  Incidentally, her farm is called DEL Shebelut: The D stands for Donna, and the E and the L stand for her kids, Elise and Lance.


All the dedicated farmers at Mountain View Farmers Market work hard, and Adrian Alvor from Montebello Farms is no exception.  He explained that there are only four of them who work at the farm, planting, harvesting, and selling every week at several farmers markets throughout Northern California.  Besides himself, there is his wife, his father and his brother.  He also told me how their 18 acre farm is on leased land in Morgan Hill, and that they fear losing that land because housing developments are getting closer all the time.  


Strawberry season seems to last longer and longer each year, but who's complaining.   As early as March and often as late as December, you can find strawberries for sale at the market, but never will you find strawberries as sweet and juicy as they are right now during the peak growing season of June, July and August.  I'm not partial to one strawberry  farmer over another, so I buy from a variety of different growers.  To be honest, it just depends on who has the sweetest sample that I might taste that particular week.


Another one of my favorite farmers is Araceli from Calderon Farms in Hollister.  I call her my potato lady because I buy one or two russet potatoes from her each week to satisfy our need to carbo-load.    Not only does Aracelli grow a wide variety of tasty vegetables, like carrots, broccoli, and green beans, she's also one of the few farmers who grows and sells fresh herbs like oregano, thyme, sage, rosemary and mint.  Oh, how I love fresh mint in my summer mojitos or an Arnold Palmer.


I get a big kick out of Brenda who works at Heirloom Organics because each week Brenda's hair is a different color.  I've noticed that her hair color often matches the colors of their produce.  One week her hair is the color of swiss chard.  Another week her hair matches the purple spinach, but bottom line, Brenda knows her stuff, and can tell you about all the different pre-washed greens they sell and how they cook up best.    Now that I know how important greens are in our daily diet, I make every effort to steam or sauté fresh greens several times a week.    


One Sunday I bought some fingerling potatoes from Ashley and Daniel at Rio de Parras Organics out of Salinas. Their  produce stand is next to Brenda's at Heirloom Organics.   When I accidentally left my bag of fingerling potatoes behind,  Brenda hunted me down amidst the large throng of shoppers because she knew how upset I would be to get home and not have my fingerlings.   Now how thoughtful is that!


Patti Gonzales of Apricot King Orchards, sells dried fruit, walnuts & almonds from a 45 acre farm that she and her husband Gary own in Hollister.   Patti is at the Mountain View Farmers Market all year round, so when fresh peaches or apricots are not in season, you can always buy dried fruit from Queen Patty, and their nuts taste delicious any time of the year.


Several growers sell delicate orchids, colorful cut flowers, and even small Japanese maple saplings,  and over the years I've bought quite a few from each.   My favorite growers are Mr. and Mrs. Herman Schmezer who have been selling potted plants at the market for more than 23 years.  They explained how this year has been kind of tough because of the current drought.  They said  some home gardeners are now looking to buy drought-resistant plants, which the Schmezers are hoping to eventually provide, but all the plants I've bought from them over the years are doing extremely well, even with limited water.    


I also appreciate the friendly farmers at High Ground Organics, who grow high quality organic vegetables, including a wide variety of lettuces: romaine, red leaf, red oak leaf, baby gem, butter, and red butter.   I know this might sound a little high-fallutin, but I think their luscious red butter lettuce falls into the category of gourmet.    Their other produce is wonderful too, but for me I always buy the lettuce. 


Last, but not least, are the helpful and knowledgable people at  Mission Fish where we buy our fresh wild salmon every single Sunday all year long.   Some times the salmon is local and caught off the California Coast.  Other times the fish is flown in fresh from Canada the day before.  As far as I'm concerned, it doesn't matter where the fish comes from because it always tastes very fresh and always very delicious. 


It's a well known fact among our good friends that if you are invited to our house for a Sunday night dinner,  you will probably be served fresh salmon, either poached, grilled, or roasted--maybe accompanied with just a slice of Meyer lemon, or a dollop of home-made pesto or maybe a spicy surprise, like a coconut Thai sauce.  If you come to our house in February I might serve roasted organic cauliflower as an appetizer.  We could also have grilled organic asparagus in April or sliced heirloom tomatoes with creamy buratta cheese in September.  I believe in simple cooking. Right now we are serving corn on the cob, with or without butter, with or without Kosher salt.

Hmm, I think it's time to finish writing this post and see what's in the refrigerator.  I'm getting hungry.  

Friday, June 27, 2014


To a cyclist the number 13 followed by the % sign is scary shit.  That's exactly what I thought when I saw the number on my bicycle computer as I climbed Spyglass Hill -- holy shit!  You see I've basically been off my bicycle for a couple of months,  thinking that if I didn't bike my shoulders would heal, and all would be good.  But, it's been six months and the shoulders haven't healed, and since they don't feel any worse on the bike than off the bike, I figured I'd rather be on the bike.  Get my drift?   OK, now back to that 13%.

It all started on a Friday Babes ride.  I probably haven't written directly about the Babes because I've wanted to keep them/us a secret, but after today's fantastic ride (6/27/14), it's time to spill the beans.

The ride started after a 2 hour drive from my house to Pacific Grove, a quaint seaside community between Monterey, California and Carmel -- two gorgeous places that are on the list in the book A Thousand Places to See Before I Die.   All eight of us met up in front of the bathrooms at Lovers Point.  I know that doesn't sound very romantic, but you always have to start a ride near a bathroom.



We headed south, some of the time on the road, and other times on bike paths.   Riding through the toll booth at the entrance to 17 Mile Drive and not have to stop to pay was a kick because cyclists get to use the private road for free, while cars pay a rather hefty fee.  The weather started out a little bit foggy, which is typical for the California Coast this time of year, but after an hour or so, the sun came out, and we began shedding layers.   There had been some earlier rumblings about Spyglass Hill, so I figured there would be a good climb at some point, but I certainly wasn't expecting something as steep as 13%.  Most people laugh when they see how low my bike gears are.  I'm no dummy.    I did not get off my bike to get up Spyglass Hill.  I didn't even have to weave back and forth across the road like Miss Nameless, but heck, she made it to the top without stopping, so who really cares how she did it!


Enough about Spyglass Hill because the rest of the ride was pretty comfy.  There were some rollers, of course, but to me that's a perfect ride.  I even like climbing hills, even steep hills, but it's better if I'm in top form, like I was when I rode Mount Tam last summer.  Even better than the roads was our delicious lunch at the outdoor cafe at the municipal golf course, often called Poor Man's Pebble Beach.  I played golf there once, but I hung up my clubs when I realized I was better at riding a bike. 




After lunch we rode back through famous Cannery Row and the Monterey Bay Aquarium, or at least close to it, and then Fisherman's Wharf on a path that was very crowded with kids on trikes,  pretty serious runners, and tourist cyclists, which means bike riders who are slow and don't have a clue as to what they are doing.  Eventually we got on the sand dunes path that had a magnificent view south overlooking Monterey Bay and north to the beach town of Santa Cruz.  I've seen that dunes path a hundred times before when driving on Highway #1, but this was the first time I'd actually ridden it.  Very cool indeed.  


At one point on the dunes path, a few of the Babes turned around, but I kept going until I reached another Miss Nameless who looks like she's barely pedaling, but she goes like the wind.  She was sitting on a guardrail at the top of a short hill waiting for me, while I huffed and puffed up the hill to meet her.   At that point we decided to turn back and head for the commercial fishing wharf in Monterey because she was hoping to buy some fresh fish for dinner.  Well, the commercial wharf was really quite an interesting scene with very large refrigerated trucks waiting to pick up fresh fish right from the boats.   There were no tourists.  Just working stiffs and a couple of cyclists hoping  to buy fresh fish.  


When that didn't work out, we headed to a local market where we knew we could buy really fresh, and we did.  My friend didn't have a backpack or any place to carry the fish for the rest of the five mile ride back to our car, so she stored the fish packed in a plastic bag with ice under her bike shirt and zipped up her jacket, and prayed it would hold until we reached the car.  And it did.



The rest of our bike ride was pretty straightforward except when we went to load our bikes in my car which was parked in a quiet residential area just off a busy street.  That's when a lovely man came out of his house and said, "Ma'am, your car alarm went off twice today.  I thought you should know."  "Oh, my God," I said.  "I'm so sorry.  What happened?  How did you stop it?"  "I didn't," he said.  "It eventually went off by itself.  Then the second time the horn went off, I tried to jiggle the driver's door because I noticed it wasn't shut tight, even though the car was locked.  Again, the horn eventually shut off by itself."  Of course, I was mortified, but there was nothing I could do but tell him how sorry I was, and I hoped I didn't ruin his or his neighbors' day, but he seemed very nonchalant.  Just got in his car and drove away.

So, that's my story about today's great bike ride in Pacific Grove and Monterey with The Babes.  Just think.  Some people spend thousands of dollars to travel here and ride their bikes on the same beautiful route we did today.   All I spent was $15.00 for lunch and three-quarters of a tank of gas.