The Romantic California Coastal Drive

We love to drive. There's a whole romantic ethos to hitting the open road. There's a dedication to one's vehicle, trusty carrier from point A to B. And sometimes its interrupted by drama, fist waving, and venting frustrations out on the idiot ahead of you.

“Driving” can mean so many different things. There's the long, drawn out cruise through the unending desert. There's the stop and start truncated frustration of big city traffic. There's the slow Sunday drive, admiring the gorgeous scenery pass by your window. There's the gas guzzling mountain drive, up and up and around and further up, until the final, satisfactory sail downhill, what goes up must go down, I always say. There's the “I gotta find it!” GPS guided drive. The drive on icy roads, making you suck in your breath and ease off both gas and brakes. There's the lonely drive, turning up the tunes or the radio documentary. There's the drive that makes you forget you are driving, surrounded by chatter and engaged in conversation.

And then there's the California coastal drive.

I started in Long Beach with the big city traffic kind. Slow and typically frustrating. Carolynn in the passenger seat beside me gave conversation and functioned as a pretty good DJ. On the outskirts of the city the traffic took a while to thin out. When it finally did, the highway met the ocean and promised to meander a breathtaking path along the coast, a stunning route we'd been hoping for. The road carved precariously at some points along the cliffs that dove nearly straight down into the ocean. We climbed, curved, and oohed and aaahhed at the unbelievable scenery we were driving along. The hills reminded us of Switzerland and Italy and Ireland. Soft green carpeted hills, well manicured, misty and lush with the warm, moist coastal air. Every 20 miles or so, cars parked along the side of the road and surfers gathered in the ocean waves. Some parts along the drive were so remote, our cell phones lost service for the first time in the US.

This drive was definitely of the romantic kind, Carolynn and I agreed, and laughed that while we enjoyed it together, it might otherwise have been the perfect setting to experience with a lover. The camping under redwoods in state parks along the way was basic and added to the romantic feeling of the journey. We stopped in charming Santa Barbara, where we sipped California bubbly and glimpsed lounging seals, seemingly lovers themselves, on a sunset sail boat cruise. Coffee and breakfast in Carmel, California's answer to the east coast's Martha's Vineyard, where the swanky moneyed Californians go for a weekend or a month away from the hustle and bustle of bigger city life. Walking around the gorgeous San Francisco. Tasting wine in Napa Valley (I recommend my newest discovery, the Freemark Abbey winery).

My rose-coloured windshield was disturbed today by an incident of the fist-waving kind. I realize the Jamboree is big and bulky and slow and since I am rarely in a hurry, I do my best to be considerate. On highways with two or more lanes, I stay over in the right hand side so everyone else can easily pass. On single lane roads, I pull over into roadside pullouts whenever I can when I notice a few cars trailing behind me. I wouldn't want to be stuck behind me either, if I were in one of those fast little cars. This morning, as I wove my way slowly in the early morning across a quiet Napa Valley road, I was faced with a driver of the idiot kind. An irritating, impatient know-it-all. He made a big deal of passing me when there was a long enough stretch of road to do so, obviously impressed with his own daring and skill behind the wheel. Right after this amazing display of driving ability, a roadside pullout appeared, into which I was about to pull, as per my general habit. Since he is ahead of me now, though, and presumably much smarter and experienced a driver than I, he found it necessary to slow down, stick his hand out the window and point at the pull out for me. Good grief, how thankful I was that he was there to teach me what to do! I mean, really, I'm surprised he managed to squeeze both himself and his ego into that tiny little car. I flipped him the bird through the Jamboree's window and pulled over for the cars who were still travelling behind me. Interestingly, none of them thanked me, and along the entire coastal drive, I only got one wave despite pulling over for hundreds of cars. Waves and toots and light flashes to indicate thanks apparently only happen on Canadian roads.

LA-Napa