Monday held a road trip of sorts. Sarah had looked up a number of things in the city that she wanted to see, so we used a maps app to design a loop. Yes, there’s an app for that.
The Painted
Ladies are seven Victorian houses all lined up and across from a park named
after the neighborhood in which it sits, Alamo Square. I thought there were
six, as the seventh (or maybe it’s the first) sits on the corner and looks
absolutely nothing like the others but, it is indeed one of seven. The lone
wolf. The drab sister. The park itself is known for its views of San Francisco,
its history as a watering hole along the 1800s trail between Mission Dolores
and the Presidio Army fort, and, of course, the architecture of the surrounding
homes which have appeared in the backgrounds of numerous movies and TV shows
over the years, including Full House and Invasion of the Body Snatchers (that’s
a wide variety, huh?). The Painted Ladies are the most famous but, in our
opinion, not the most beautiful of these famous houses. The row houses, built
between 1850 and the early 1900s, are lined up like Victorian women in richly
colored dresses and ornate accessories, prim and proper and painfully-maintained
with not a blade of grass out of place. Unfortunately for us, one of the homes
was currently for sale (it subsequently sold for $3,550,000 - $800k over the
asking price) and was covered by scaffolding. Apparently, it was a
‘fixer-upper’ at that price. Sheesh. We were lucky to find a street spot just
off Steiner Street and hurried across for a peek and a pic.
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| The Drab Sister |
Battery Spencer,
the first of two stops to view the Golden Gate Bridge, which is, inexplicably, not
golden but red, did not disappoint. It sits above the bridge, so you are
looking down upon and across the Golden Gate with Alcatraz and the cityscape in
the background. Winds were brutal and it was cold by California standards, so
we admired the view, posed for some selfies, and headed to the opposite view at
Marshall’s Beach.
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| Expectation . . . |
 |
| . . . Reality |
As we were
driving from one viewpoint to the other, Riley called – well, Brian called from
Riley’s phone, to let me know that his phone had crashed, and he wasn’t sure
how to proceed. After offering some advice about finding an Apple store to try
to have it restored or, worst-case, buy a replacement, we hiked out onto the
pathway that led along Marshall’s Beach but about 250 feet above it atop a
cliff. It was difficult in either location to get a photo without a ton of
tourists in it, but we managed to get a few shots that did little justice to
the real thing. On a future trip, we’d love to have the time to take the
mile-long hike down the bluff and onto the actual white-sand and lightly wave-kissed
beach, which is secluded and known for clothing-optional sunbathing – one of
which will be a treat for the eyes, the other of which may or may not. Next time,
SFO. Next time.
The Lincoln Park
Steps sit at the end of a dead-end road and, as you approach them, you think
you’re staring at an intricate tile mosaic. As you get closer, the illusion is
broken, the third dimension comes to life, and the flat wall becomes a steep
set of 52 tile-faced stairs. We were losing daylight, so this was our quickest
‘stop’ of the day – okay, we did a drive by and stopped long enough for some
pictures (from inside the car – cold and getting dark, remember?).
Who even knew
about the Dutch Windmill? Someone, apparently, because it’s on the w-w-w. It’s
one of two windmills that cap opposite ends of Golden Gate Park. They were
constructed for just what you’d think – to pump water – because the park needed
substantial irrigation to keep it, well, park-like, and since it sat on sand
dunes, innovation was required. Since it was only 1903, innovation wasn’t what
we might think of it as today – you know, like pipes and such. Thus, the
windmills were built. We parked along the road, took a short walk into the
adjoining tree line and, boom . . . there it was. It stands 75 feet, and each
of the four ‘spars’ is 102 feet long. It no longer carries the 30,000 gallons
per hour that it was once known to do, and has been restored more than once
and, frankly, probably needs be again. This, too, requires another visit
because it is surrounded by gardens that flourish with tulips in the spring.
Next time, SFO. Next time.
SARAH's PICS
After reading a
bit more following our uneventful visit, we learned that they weren’t the same
– Pier 39 and Fisherman’s Wharf, I mean. I thought the terms were
interchangeable. They’re not at all. I was, sadly, very wrong. Fisherman’s
Wharf is the entire area around the various piers, including streets and
streets and streets lined with shops, restaurants, bars, and activities. Ahh. So,
that’s why the reviewers suggest a day or more. Next time, SFO. Next time.
Next, we walked
about 6 long blocks (from Pier 39 to Pier 33) to wait for the launch call to
board Hornblower, our ferry to Alcatraz. It was a beautiful day in the low 60s,
and the sea breeze added that salty element to the air that is my soul’s umami.
The ride was only about 10 minutes. It is only about a mile, after all, from
the island to the mainland. No time for the widely-touted and very expensive
on-board cocktails.
When we arrived,
we ate the rest of our lunch while listening to a short, informative, and
mandatory talk by a park ranger (Did you know it’s a National Park?). We climbed
the equivalent of a 13-story building – that’s a true statement . . . look it
up – and then some, hiking to the summit where the bunkhouse sits, the iconic
but non-descript tan building perched at the top of the island built,
ironically, by the prisoners who would ultimately house it. Our tickets
included a great audio tour that took about 90 minutes or so and required more walking
both inside and out, but told us the captivating history of the island (read
about it – it’s amazing and so interesting), the escape rumors and true tales,
and all about the ‘staff’ that actually lived on the island – with their
children! – and cared for the prisoners. The kids took a ferry to the mainland
for school and, while they were gone, the prisoners were allowed outside for
‘yard time.’ So crazy. I guess I never thought about all of the people who
would have to have been there 24x7 to maintain some semblance of order and
humanity for the ones relegated to living in a 9’ by 4’ cell for much of their
lives. We were glad the tour ended inside, as the weather had quickly turned to
quintessential Northern California winter rain and gotten quite a bit colder.
We sat inside on the ride back and discovered that the widely-touted and very
expensive on-board cocktails were, actually, non-existent. Hmmm. Maybe you only
get them on the way TO the island, since you won’t be driving there. Next time,
SFO. Next time.
After returning to the mainland, Sarah and I drove to the Daly City home of Elizabeth’s longtime friend, Ved (pronounced Vay-d), and his husband, Andrew. Elizabeth had flown in earlier that afternoon and was at their place alone while they got haircuts and worked and did boy things. We ladies enjoyed a glass of wine while we waited for them and caught up a bit with our Babeth. The boys hosted for a delicious dinner and some great conversation about work (Ved is an honest-to-goodness rocket scientist who works for Nasa and is recently involved in coral reef preservation), families (Ved’s dad was a lifelong family friend of Meher, so Elizabeth has known Ved since he was an infant), and pets (they have a charming dog that Ved rescued from the Russian subway and brought back to America!). It was a delightful evening.
We drove for about 2½ hours in the rain that evening to get to Capitola and our CUTE Airbnb. It wasn’t supposed to take quite that long, but I was being uber cautious, given the circumstances. The drive was absolutely terrifying, with water spraying on the windshield to the point of blindness, insane darkness that you couldn’t penetrate more than a few feet with the headlights, and towering forests on one side and steep ocean cliffs on the other. And an unfamiliar road. We vowed that we would not do that drive at night anymore.
We drove for about 2½ hours in the rain that evening to get to Capitola and our CUTE Airbnb. It wasn’t supposed to take quite that long, but I was being uber cautious, given the circumstances. The drive was absolutely terrifying, with water spraying on the windshield to the point of blindness, insane darkness that you couldn’t penetrate more than a few feet with the headlights, and towering forests on one side and steep ocean cliffs on the other. And an unfamiliar road. We vowed that we would not do that drive at night anymore.
But we made it.
The room we rented came with a spot in the carport which, after a very tight
turning radius, multipoint turn, and guided squeeze into my side, we left our
rental car in and headed up to the second level. We were so pleased with our
room. It was SUPER tiny, but well-appointed, and cutely decorated. Needless to
say, after that day, we quickly crashed for the night.
It’s like
something out of a horror flick, the fog. If it gets thick enough, you cannot
see much beyond the hood of the car. And, not being used to those driving
conditions, it’s real hard to go the requisite 35 mph around those hairpin
turns, let alone the 45 or 50 mph required to avoid being rear ended by a local.
We were in it most of the way back. when you’re getting ready to drive into it,
the meaning behind the term ‘blanket of fog’ becomes very clear. You can see it
coming, like an omen, like impending doom. And when you descend (or ascend, as
the case may be) out of it, it’s like the sun coming out from behind a cloud.
Suddenly, you’re in the most spectacular, sparkling sunlight, and it’s as if
you’re only recalling a faded dream, a faded, fog-filled dream. I hate driving
in fog. Hopefully people who live there get used to it. They must, based on
their speed and driving agility.
We rounded out
the day at The Brookdale Lodge, arriving well after dark.
Brookdale Lodge sits
at the ‘far end’ of town, about 5 miles from where I grew up (it’s not a very
big place, remember?), and is famous for its ghosts. So much so that it
garnered the attention of the likes of Zak Bagans and was visited by the cast
and crew of Ghost Adventures, among other paranormal investigators. Once the ‘place
to be’, Brookdale Lodge was frequented by locals and celebrities alike,
including Marilyn Monroe, Henry Ford, President Herbert Hoover, my parents, and
the Mob (although, hopefully not at the same time).
Psychic Sylvia
Browne connected with more than sixty spirits within the walls of the Lodge.
But there are four that continue to interact with, mystify, and terrify
visitors to this day.
The Lodge was built
over Clear Creek, which runs right through what was once the Brook Room dining
hall. An elevated stage graced one end where cabaret shows and solo performers
were featured, and diners enjoyed 5-star meals at linen-draped tables that lined
the creek bed. Sadly, this was where tragedy struck. Before the hotel was
built, Sarah Logan, a relative of the original developer, drowned. It was 1892,
and she was just 10. Providing a magical portal between this life and the next,
the lifeforce of the creek keeps her spirit in close proximity to visitors, but
trapped, sadly, along the water’s edge.
A second ghost is
said to be that of another young girl who drowned in the Lodge’s indoor pool, which
was used in part for mermaid shows. There is a below-ground room with one glass
wall that looks into the depths of the pool so people could watch the ‘mermaids’
as they performed. The girl haunts that room, appearing dripping wet among the
spectators, or floating in the water itself.
Two of the sleeping
rooms are said to be haunted by ghosts who do things like steal people’s keys, shift
their clothes around in the closet, and cause a general ruckus while the guests
are trying to sleep.
The darkest entity,
though, inhabits the pool’s deck. There have been so many frightening and
dangerous reports of his antics that the indoor deck has been closed off. Why
there is still water in the pool is beyond me. Kids (I suspect) have snuck into
the cordoned off areas of the Lodge and wreaked havoc, including trying to
break the glass wall in the Mermaid Room. What the literal . . . ??? That's the blue part in the center of the picture above. That's glass, holding back all of the water that is still in the pool. I guess
they didn’t think about what would happen when 100,000 gallons of water came
crashing in on them if they were successful. Thank goodness they weren’t.
In one of the Lodge’s
storage areas, there is an attic door that, when police arrived at the Lodge at
one point long ago, was discovered to contain a fully-functioning bookie room suspected
to have been used by Al Capone (his sister lived in Santa Cruz and he
frequented the area and the Lodge regularly).
Although these most
famous areas of the haunted history are not open to the public, lucky for us,
my longest friend, Amber, whom I have known since the age of 3, works there now
and was able to give us a full tour – in the dark!! It was so creepy and cool! I
captured some orbs flying around in the Mermaid Room on video.
It was SO amazing
to see Amber. We haven’t seen each other in about 20 years, when our kiddos
were just little and I took Sarah and my mom with me on a work trip to San
Francisco. Her son, Jacob, is just a few months younger than Sarah. He is now
in the Marines and was at boot camp when we visited so, unfortunately, we didn’t
get to see him. I sure hope to do that soon. I have so many fond memories of
Amber and my childhood together, and it was heartwarming to reminisce about
them all. Amber and I learned that our lives have continued taking many
parallel paths. We felt like we connected on a very deep level, and are looking
forward to developing a new, grown-up version of our precious childhood friendship.
On Thursday, Sarah
and I went back to Felton in the morning. It’s grown up a little bit since I’ve
been gone. As of the last census, Felton, CA., now has about 4,500 people. But,
when I lived there in the early ‘70s, it was half that (at least according to
Wikipedia). Oh, how I’ve missed you, tiny mountain town.
Sarah patiently
indulged me while I drove around and pointed out where things used to be, and
where some still were, and all the memories that went along with each location:
Mount Hermon Christian
Conference Center, where my mom worked first as a maid and then as the
secretary to the Human Resources Director. Where we would walk from our house
through the forest and over the rickety bridge, along and above Zayante Creek,
to visit The Fountain, a then-candy shop and now-café, and buy watermelon Jolly
Rancher sticks and break off just enough to fit in our mouths, carefully melting and molding them to make
pretend retainers. Where we would run over the footbridge between the plaza where
the book shop sat and the administration building where my mom worked. Where
Ponderosa Lodge, the place where the high school kids went to summer camp, was
SUCH a long walk for a seven-year-old but had the best big pool with a high
dive AND a low dive, and where my brother drank a mouthful of bees after
leaving his soda on the pool’s edge. (Turns out it’s only about 200 yards from
the administration building but, apparently that was really far for a lazy
little seven-year-old walking in the summer sun.) And where the day camp was,
where we would volunteer to paint noodles and push swings and tie shoes of the
little ones whose parents were learning about writing or marriage or music or God.
Roaring Camp, where my dad was
the conductor for a touristy train ride and would dramatically jump off the
train to switch the track after it passed, then run to jump back on the back of
the caboose just before we would seemingly leave him in the dust, a little
Western town that had wooden sidewalks and cowboys and a candy store.
The doctor’s office (Dr. Peterson?) where we would go for sickness, injury, and check-ups, unless he came to our place.
The Safeway where we bought groceries and shoes, and the huge grassy field between it and one of my houses where I walked through to get to the school bus, rode down the hill on cardboard, and fed the beautiful horses who grazed there and I pretended were my own.
The little white library that looked like it was straight out of Little House on the Prairie, where my friend and I sang at the retirement part of said doctor and where we would listen to stories told to us by our moms or neighbors or random nice grownups who happened to be reading to their own children or neighbors and didn’t mind us sitting in, that smelled like old wood and had creaky floors.
The covered bridge that we
would ride horses over hearing the echo of their clippity-clop bouncing off the
river below, and the stables on the other side where they were kept and where we
spent countless, dirty, blissful summer days.
My elementary school where I
was a total hippy-child who played Red Rover and burned my butt on metal swings and slides, where I was in Miss Frisbey’s class in first, second & third
grade (I told you it was a small town), got in trouble for asking when we were
decorating the Christmas tree and ran headlong into a metal basketball hoop
while doing the 100-yard dash during the Presidential Physical Fitness exam in
Mr. Brown’s fourth grade class, met Amy and read The Secret Garden in Ms. Semenza’s fifth
grade class, and hated absolutely everything about my sixth grade class to the
point where I can’t even remember the teacher’s name; and my junior high school
where I had a math teacher who looked like Santa and smelled like cloves, an
English teacher who helped me realize I needed glasses and got low blood sugar
if I didn’t eat breakfast, and a long concrete ramp we had to walk down to get
to the cafeteria (it was shared between the elementary, junior high, and high
school – small town, remember?), and the time that I got flat-tired by someone
coming down the hill behind me and ended up landing right on my tailbone.
My preschool, Tic Tot, where I
rode tricycles up and down the concrete ‘roads’ (complete with painted stripes),
and played in the red plastic house, and build sandcastles, and ate lunch at
tiny tables, and sat in small circles to listen to stories, and took naps on mats
in front of a roaring fire with our teacher humming nearby in a rocking chair.
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| San Lorenzo Valley Elementary School |
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| San Lorenzo Valley Junior High |
The streets where I lived
(there were three in those 9 years). I'll have to find pictures of these in my family photos and add them later.
~
Lazywoods
Road (which is actually Lazy Woods – 2 words – but I never knew that so it will
forever be one word to me) where I lived from age 2 to about 7 or 8 or maybe
10, and where we went to Polly and Ray’s house and made Christmas ornaments,
and where I went down to the bottom of the loop for Brownies, and where the
Murphys lived across the street, and where my dad taught my friends to draw the
Flintstones in the carport for my fifth birthday, and we rode bikes around the
back yard and up to the bedroom window to play drive-thru before there even was
such a thing (why didn’t we patten that?), and we had a cat named Tiger, and I
spent a lot of time naked;
~
The
Green’s House, which was on Zayante Road (named after the creek, I suppose) and
was grey but was rented to us by the Greens, and which was next door to Karen,
and up the hill from the Suttons, and above the A-frame where I babysat, and
where we rubbed poison oak leaves all over each other and became ‘The Poison
Oak Monster’, never realizing that we would actually get a horrible rash by
doing it, and where I cut my hair short for the first time, and where I wore a
homemade long dress for my 10th birthday, which showed off said haircut,
and where my friends and I put on our long dresses and shucked corn at the
picnic table on the back deck and pretended we were Laura Ingalls, and where my
cat ‘rescued’ baby rabbits only to accidentally kill them, and where my
brother’s parakeet, Bingo, died, and where I petted and fed carrots to
previously-mentioned horses over the fence, and where my last memory of Grama
Nan took place, making cookies with bacon grease, and where I loved to be in
the garage with my dad when he was painting because he played cool Jazz music
and it smelled of turpentine
~
and
the Canyon House, which was on Canyon Road, where I had my first ‘own room’
with a poster of John Wayne, and where I fell asleep to Somewhere Over the
Rainbow (which I’d picked from a mental file cabinet filled with songs),
forgotten prayers, and reassurances that God knew what I was going to say, and
tickly back scratches from my sweet mama, where the back of the house was on
stilts way above the San Lorenzo River and surrounded by thick forests, and where
the boy of my dreams lived up the street (whose name, Sean, when spelled out on
the phone buttons, was the last four digits of my phone number and so was, of
course, fated to be my forever love), and where a foreign exchange student from
Switzerland lived (Sonja?), and where we would slide down the stairs in
sleeping bags, and where I thought my brother’s bent knee was a wobbling,
headless body, when I woke up mid-TV show screaming, and where my other brother,
who had forgotten his housekey, climbed up said stilts on the back of the house
and tried to get in the deck door after school, not realizing I was sleeping on
the couch just inside and otherwise home alone, causing me to run out the front
door to a neighbor’s house reporting someone was breaking in, resulting in a
call to the police and my mom, and the arrival of a SWAT-like team of police
with guns drawn meeting said brother as he wandered to the front door with a
bowl of cereal and a bewildered look.
The church we were taken to
when we were too young to choose, where I would fall asleep in my mom’s lap
during the ‘long prayer’ and hike myself down the stairs to the Sunday school
rooms to color books about apostles and make macaroni necklaces and ‘stained
glass’ with wax paper and crayons, grateful to miss out on the majority of the
grown-up service.
Filled with
nostalgia and peanut butter sandwiches we crafted on the dashboard, Sarah and I
headed next to Scotts Valley, about 10 minutes away, to meet up with my other
elementary school girlfriend, Amy, and her daughter, Ally. I kick myself for
not taking any pictures. My mom, sister, and Aunt Vicki had arrived by then as
well, so they joined us for a glass of wine, appetizers, and reminiscing & catching up. We’d learned along the years that Amy and I both had David Paul’s
for husbands (mine being first and middle names, and hers being first and
last), and that we were both pregnant with our first kiddos at the same time.
We learned this time that we’d both worked in our kids’ schools and were still
married to our David Pauls, our high school sweethearts, for 30+ years. Parallels.
It was so great to see Amy, and we were both able to confirm and clarify our
memories from being such long-ago friends. We didn’t have nearly as much time
to become soulmates as Amber and I had before I moved away, since Amy and I had
only met in fifth grade. But we vowed to see each other again, and I look
forward to getting to know her as grown-ups.
Mom, Elizabeth,
and Vicki headed off then to see Aunt Jacque. Three sisters soon to be reunited.
Sarah and I followed along shortly thereafter and were able to give everyone a
quick hug in the dark before heading back to Capitola.
We rounded out our
evening with a walk along Capitola Village to find some dinner, settling on very
easy and quite tasty pizza by the slice, and headed back to our room to crash
after an emotionally spent day.
Friday morning
found us back in Scotts Valley, meeting up with family and friends for a
delicious brunch. We were joined by Aunt Jacque and Uncle Ronnie, cousins
Darren and Barry (that’s another post), Amber, and, of course, Elizabeth, Mom
and Vicki. Like I said, estrogen overload with a side of males.
As they were
heading on to Henry Cowell and we had already been, Sarah and I instead wandered
along the closed Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk, where I spent many a summer day
riding the Giant Dipper and the Jet Star, taking the Sky Glider from one end to
the other when we were too lazy or sunburned to walk, wasting money trying to
win a giant stuffed monkey by throwing dull darts at loosely filled water
balloons, or binging on soft pretzels and cotton candy and salt water taffy. I
was so sad that the rides were closed, but we decided not to spend the money to
come back the next day when the rides were open, since just walking along the
wooden boardwalk was enough to send me whirling back into a sea-breezy
childhood.
Arriving back in
Capitola late afternoon, we hit up a wine tasting and Sarah bought a ‘thank
you’ bottle for her friend, Tai, who was caring for Mila while we were away.
Then we walked down the Capitola Wharf, had some cocktails and appetizers at
the Wharf Restaurant, and watched the surfers catching their last waves of the
day as the sky took us into yet another familiar scene from my walls, a breathtaking
California sunset fronted by wave-splashed cliffs.
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| (L-R) Ronnie, Barry, Elizabeth, Sarah, Me, Amber, Darren, Jacque, Mama, Vicki |
 |
| Sisters and Cousins Front (L-R): Jacque, Gloria, Vicki Back (L-R): Darren, Barry, Sharon, Elizabeth |
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| I loved this painting in the winery |
Our final day
brought us to the mountain cabin of my cousin’s girlfriend for a homemade
breakfast. It was delicious, of course, and we were able to meet the husband of
yet another cousin who, herself, was not there as she was attending her son’s Navy
boot camp graduation. We used Facebook Portal to video chat with them, though, and
enjoyed watching her Corgi, Dash (a hero who receives full credit for saving
them all from Aunt Jacque’s house fire), play a surprisingly quick game of
fetch considering his short legs and rotund body. Sarah and I cut out early and
headed back to see Amber one more time, this time at her house. We learned of
more amazing parallels with work, kids, husbands, repercussions, new
beginnings, kids, parents, and the otherworldly.
 |
| Amber makes these adorable acorn people and painted wooden spoons. Of course, we brought some of each home! |
On our way back
to the Airbnb, Sarah and I stopped at a bakrey (Gayle’s?) to get some dessert
for the night and breakfast for the morning, and found the most amazing,
well-run, and well-appointed pastry shop that either of us has ever been in. We
got way too much, including a full loaf of famous northern California sourdough,
and headed back to the room to turn in early in anticipation of our early
morning trip to the airport.
Sunday morning,
we left around 6:30 (a.m. – ugh) to head back to San Francisco for our return
flight home. Of course, it was raining. Again. But, having left plenty of time
for Starbucks and conscientious driving, we took our time on CA-17 to head ‘over
the hill.’
Well, it’s a good
thing we did because, just outside of Los Gatos, a large SUV driving in the
left lane began to come over into mine. I honked and braked, and probably yelled
a few expletives, before I realized, just as it started to spin around to face
me, that it was sliding. I slammed on the brakes and screeched to a stop, just
in time to see it bounding over and coming to a lifted stop atop a guardrail,
facing oncoming traffic. We pulled over just as we heard two other cars slam
into each other behind us. I called 9-1-1 while Sarah snapped into nurse-mode
and jumped out of the car to check on the passengers. Thankfully, no one was
seriously hurt. I think the man driving the SUV was dazed, because he actually proceeded
to drive his car off the guardrail even though his front fender was bent into
the passenger-side tire. And the girl who had run into the back of another,
smaller SUV was as well, because she didn’t realize she would need a tow truck,
even though water from the radiator was pouring out from under the car, and there
was virtually no engine compartment left on her little car. We were all
horrified to see that the woman she ran into had a dog kenneled in the back,
but he appeared to be unhurt as well, if not quite shaken up. Once the
emergency responders had been called and we’d been given permission to leave
the scene, we got on our way -- only to discover that, as she jumped out of the
car, Sarah had dropped her jacket and phone outside the car. We pulled over and
did a thorough search for it, called it, called the police to have them look at
the scene, and even went back to where the accident had taken place, but they
were no where to be found. She was so mad and sad, and it was really a bummer
to have that be the final event of our otherwise lovely trip.
Alamo was equally
blasé about us returning the car and, after a cursory glance at the mileage,
they sent us on our way. After a return train ride, short security delay, and
delicious crepes at the gate, we boarded our flight and gratefully returned home,
exhausted and recharged.
It was a lovely
trip with a perfect mix of family, friends, and alone time with Sarah. I am so
thankful to have had this time with my earliest girlfriends, who help define my
childhood, but more so with my daughter, who has helped define me in every
other way. I can’t wait to do it again, finding hidden wonders, going on
whirlwind tourist ben-shirts, and making new memories with one of my favorite
traveling companions.
 |
| A view of the Bingham Copper Mine from our plane. This is just a few miles from our house, so we probably flew right over our neighborhood shortly after this, although we weren't able to see it. |
(Oh, and it turns
out the aforementioned ‘pending pandemic’ will be another post, so stay tuned
if you don’t want to look it up and were living under a rock at the beginning
of 2020.)