Pacific Mist in Mendocino

To some, this place seems like heaven. A cabin nestled atop a cliffside with breathtaking views of the turbulent sea. I'm witnessing the violence this liquid mass has unleashed on the cowering crags the waves envelope with each crashing push. It's so dramatic--the way the water lifts itself, forming foaming white ocean waves that holds itself in the air, like a bomb exploding in slow motion. The activity of the ocean seems peaceful from afar, but from this floor to ceiling window, there's an intimate inlet into it's madness. 
The Pacific Mist Inn and Bungalows was one of many rustic seaside escapes into the Mendocino County countryside. Passing through a one lane road canopied with towering Redwoods, I felt as if I was edging on the end of the earth and this was the only way out. Thickly settled fog disrupts your search for the town centre, so once you find your humble abode, nestle up next to the fireplace and take comfort knowing you're above the mass chaos of sea below.
Pacific Mist Inn provides the simple pleasantries of home from plush carpeted floors to a fully furnished kitchen and a definite "lived in" feel to compliment the overall small town appeal of the surrounding area. Of course, the hot tub and wooden deck overlooking the Pacific Ocean are all an addendum to the home you know so well. 
If I had known there was a Mendocino nightlife, I certainly would've partook in the festivities. However, this one horse town could hardly carry itself past 9pm, but of course, not the emphasis of the adventure; I lived for the daytime glory. The oppressive sun fused with the ocean mist dusted the skyline with a dream-like haze. 

State parks and beach hopping drove our exploratory urges from as far south as Elk to the northernmost point of Fort Bragg, where there was at least a shadow of another human lingering. Sprinkled in our search for the best (of the best) view, were pit stops at the local Mendocino Chocolate Company, where indulging in succulent truffles is an understatement, as well as the double patty Mendo Burger complete with a side of fresh cut fries. Mmm, I can feel the fat seeping through my pores. 

Wineries and micro breweries are also a "to do" in Mendocino and Fort Bragg. Passing through Boonville, we kept out eyes open for the fabled brown bears with antlers as featured on the popular Boont Amber Ale label, but the closest animal we came to was a whiff of the ever-popularized skunk. Whether its a metaphor for the massive amounts of marijuana grown in the surrounding forests, or simply an affinity for our funky fresh friend, you were almost guaranteed a stinging nostril full. 

A native from Mendocino County shared jaded sentiments of how the fishing and lumber industries pummeled in the last year, so many resorted to working in spas, which lined Route 128 like little plastic gnomes belonging to a crazed lawn ornament collector. I was treated with the Swedish/hot stone mixture massage at The Indigo Spa at Stevenswood Inn. I can confidently say I've received better treatment, but considering most people were interested not so much in the finer things in life, but the more relaxing, I decided to embrace the hour massage and return with a calmer approach to life. In a place where peace almost felt infectious, I really had to try to not enjoy it. 

Now, back in the bustle of San Francisco, the detachment from seemingly crucial technological devices such as my cell phone was a blessing in disguise. I lived in the present with what was there and enjoyed it for just that. Sometimes it's hard to imagine life being so simple. Vere off 101 N and you won't look back for at least three days.

Cause I'm cool like that...

I have a scrapbook I keep under my bed thats full of tickets. I've been collecting stubs since I was thirteen. For some reason it seems if I don't keep some physical form of evidence that these events took place, I wouldn't even remember I was there. 

However, it is hard to forget the trip I took to Europe with my friend Cameron a few years ago. Above is a page in my scrapbook I filled with plane tickets and the like from when we traveled around Spain, Italy and the Netherlands. Impounded in my memory is of course the Spanish prostitute loitering outside our hostel in Gran Via who always wore the same tangerine colored dress and could be persuaded by a Big Mac and fries. Seeing my favorite painting, "The Garden of Earthly Delights" by Hieronymus Bosch at the Prado in Madrid certainly sticks as well. Even the barrage of Italian men rushing down the alleyway in Rome to whisk Cameron and I off with a "kiss" is unforgettable. 

However, having documented proof in some kind of collage, nestled neatly under my bed helps remind me of where I was and that I was legitimately there. My memory then tends to lapse and fill in the gaps of what I thought I remembered rather than what actually happened. 

I like knowing that there were specific dates and times that coincide with these memories that will never blur with time. 

Warming up the keys

I eat eggs almost everyday. Usually scrambled and mixed with that 100% egg white stuff you can get in cartons at the grocery store. 

Just like any other day, I sharply cracked the egg over the pan. However, this time a little bit of shell dropped in to the mix just before it started to fry. I fingered around the liquid a little, trying to coerce it to the side of the pan to no avail. I used a fork to sift it out, yet again, still stuck in there and now seconds were precious before the the egg really started to cook. 

Sadly, I couldn't find this damn bit of egg shell. I prodded and pried, but it just made the shell seem as if it evaporated right into the egg whites. I hunched over the stove as I scraped the egg into its scrambled state, still looking to see if I could maybe separate it from the mix. 

The egg finished cooking and I dumped it onto my plate, my nose practically snorting egg up them as I tried to scrupulously to find what was now a consuming obsession. No shell. I now started eating them, thinking this would be the time it couldn't get away; this inopportune time where I would feel the little crack of a hard shell between my teeth and finally find this sucker. 

I ate the whole plate of eggs. Each bite took longer than the next. I swirled my tongue around each bite, trying to see if I could catch it without biting down. I was intent on finding this shell, and all of a sudden, there was nothing left to worry about. I must have eaten the shell unknowingly. It's in my stomach right now, I might even have some indigestion from it although that has yet to take effect. 

Could this elusive shell be a metaphor for life? Could we constantly scrutinize each little imperfection, each small mistake or slip-ups til it seemingly means everything to us? Perhaps swallowing your troubles and moving on is what it takes to realize that those mistakes make little to no difference on the bigger plate in life. It's how we move on from them that really matters.

My eggs were delicious, just like every other day, with or without the shell. 

I'll keep you posted on the indigestion...that could be a whole other layer to this metaphor. 

The Virginal Blogger

This is me. Popped my blog cherry today...