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(SAVANNAH, Ga.) — You know that moment when you meet someone, and you feel a spark of electricity? You two are introduced, and you shake hands, and you look into that person’s face and you know, just know, that there is something important going on. This simply feels right, and you’re smitten. Minutes or hours or days later, you may find out this person is dating someone else or is not attracted to your gender or is a little racist. But the memory of your first interaction is still there, still pure, and I think, still important. It’s that first second of surprise and delight in which anything seems possible. You’re transported from the real world, and you love it.
I haven’t felt that way about anyone in a long time. But that was my experience of Charleston.
I had my little dalliance with South Carolina the other day, when I was feeling antsy and decided to run up the coast. I was tired and had very little time to spare, but I had this sense that I was going to like Charleston. Or maybe I just decided to. At any rate, by the time I arrived in that old, Southern city, I was ready for something magical.
Mind you, Savannah, the town I ditched for the day, is lovely and comfortable. I have been here for nearly three weeks, and they have been some of the best of my trip. Steve and Cindy Meguiar, the pastor and his wife who have let me park outside their church, are amazing people. They’ve given me more support and love than I ever imagined anyone would on this trip. Here, I have become a small part of the Aldersgate Methodist Church community, and people know me by name. When I go to the church’s nearby gym to take a shower, folks chat me up, and when a recent church breakfast was held, I was invited. Because of this mostly, I have a relationship now with Savannah. I would have never have guessed this was possible, but it feels a little bit like my home.
On Thursday, like so often in my past, I felt like running away from home, if only for a day. I wanted something new and dramatic. I wanted to be swept off my feet. And you know what? I got my wish.
Looking back, it’s hard to even pick out what made Charleston seem so incredibly romantic to me. But when I was there, it was heady stuff. Set on a peninsula, the historic section feels tiny, though it’s actually a decent-sized maze of old, wooden houses, high-end shops and an occasional cobblestone street. Spanish moss drips from everything, which makes the place seem like a movie set. I’ve been in the East so long now that I hardly even notice when I walk past a home with a placard that reads 1802 or something, but it should be noted that Charleston is chock full of those romantic, pastel-colored, antique buildings. For the most part, they’ve got deep porches and working shutters and elegant railings and fences crafted out of iron. Some have opulent gardens behind them, and all are far too rich for my blood. As I rode a tour bus through the area, I said, “Wow,” under my breath at the fanciness, as did many of my white-haired counterparts. As my spry, dry-witted, senior citizen tour guide explained in his drawl, these are antebellum structures. Then I kicked myself for completely forgetting what that meant.
“I hope everyone can understand my accent,” the guide said, grinning. “I do speak it the way God intended around these parts.”
He was a funny, crowd-pleasing, proud Southerner, and while he wasn’t raised in the city, you would never have known it. He talked about Charleston as though it was a family heirloom. To hear him tell it, this wasn’t just the where Stephen Colbert and the Civil War got their start. No, Charleston was basically the birthplace of America. As someone who enjoys a state with a big, healthy ego, I was eating this enthusiasm up.
 After the tour, I did what any love struck person would — nothing. I just drank the city in with my eyes and strolled the small, scattered streets while half-heartedly trying to find various landmarks. I took pictures. I wrote down little thoughts in my journal. I people watched. As the sun began to set and the city started to sink into darkness, I stood by the ocean, just happy to be exactly where I was. I felt like I was on vacation, vacation from whatever this trip has become and will turn out to be. My eyes fixed on the pier in front of me, and I saw a guy in his 20s sitting with his dog. Each was looking out to opposite ends of the horizon. The boy had his hand on his pooch, and the tableau was so sweet that it was as though I had fallen into a Norman Rockwell painting. It felt good to have the time to notice it.
Dinner was what you would expect — fatty and meaty and delicious at a soul food place called Jestine’s Kitchen. The only big surprise was my reading material. As soon as I walked in, the manager handed me a copy of skirt!, a Southeastern free women’s newspaper. I had seen this monthly collection of non-fiction essays in stands on the street before but hadn’t yet sat down with one. But as I read and ate, I found myself giving it my complete attention. Taking in those short, deadly honest stories started to make me feel something. This was real stuff. I was internalizing essays about affairs and college admissions and miscarriages, and right there, alone, I nearly started to cry. Was it the subject matter? Maybe. But more so, I think that was my response to seeing people put their vulnerability into words. I kind of like that it made me almost cry.
 Pruned trees near the ocean in Charleston. With this bout of emotion fresh in my body, I walked through the mile of silent stillness back to my truck, parked along the ocean. Feeling a bit solitary in all that quiet, I called a friend, a Coloradoan who used to live in Charleston, in fact. I thanked him for all the tips he had already given me about the city and told him about my day. As he replied, I could hear some softness and affection in his voice. And while I enjoyed it, I don’t think that was for me, really. He was sending out love to his former city.
“God, you’re making me homesick,” he said.
For that moment, as I sat in my car, parked between the Atlantic and a row of beautiful homes probably older than my home state of California, I understood.
If I were to have slept the night in Charleston or stayed a week or tried to find a job there, I’m sure the romance would have rolled right off that sweet little city. But I wasn’t about to. I didn’t have any desire to see Charleston as a layered, textured thing. I didn’t want the reality of it to spoil my enjoyable little crush.
And besides, I didn’t have the time. Onward to Florida.
 Nikki Hardin founded the newspaper skirt! when she was broke, middle aged and looking for some meaning in her life. Now the paper is all over the Southeast. Amazing. I saw this portrait of Nikki at Jestine's Kitchen, a restaurant in Charleston, S.C.  I wonder how many Laurens walked by this?  When someone grabs you and says, "Let's take a picture in front of this painting," sometimes you do. Charleston, S.C.  All that's left of an old factory. Charleston, S.C.
(NOTE: This was written on New Year’s Day)
(SAVANNAH, Ga.) — Today I jumped into the Atlantic Ocean along with 100 costumed Georgians. I loved it. That’s the Polar Bear Plunge for you, which happens every year on Tybee Island. Though it hurt to be thrashing in icy water alongside half-naked strangers, it was also beautiful. The temperature was shocking, but we were all in it together, figuratively and actually. I knew hardly anyone there — not the people painted as Smurfs nor the band of Oompa-Loompas nor the various, inevitable cross-dressed men — but I felt I shared something with them. It was just something goofy, something flecked with pleasure and pain, but that is good enough for me. I savor that kind of camaraderie no matter how it comes my way.
It’s six hours later now, and it’s silent where I’m parked, even though I’m not far from downtown Savannah. I am immensely digging the quiet and the dark. As I travel, I am constantly fighting sensory overload. Distraction and new things are everywhere. I thought it was great being in Times Square and standing at the CN Tower in Toronto and seeing the nightlife of Wilmington, N.C. But I also really enjoy solitary nights in my trailer, when I’m free to bake or read a book or perhaps knit while watching a movie I’ve seen before. Sometimes, I fear there’s an old lady lurking inside me. I can’t help how much I like the simple life.
 Jockey's Ridge State Park. Nags Head, N.C. I know that is why I loved the Outer Banks.
I want to apologize to those islands, as I feel I should have written more about them when I was actually there. Yet, while I was staying in Nags Head and Ocracoke, it was so natural and nice that I almost felt I didn’t have to document it. It seemed that much a part of me.
There, I felt like there was room for me. Like so many beach communities on the Atlantic, the towns that dot the skinny island slices of the Outer Banks are extremely seasonal. These places are crawling with people in the summer, but in the winter months, no one is hardly home. I was free to explore the dunes and run on the beach and walk through the empty residential zones without encountering anybody. It’s not that I like to be alone all the time. I swear it isn’t. I love being around people who welcome me — but I also need the feeling of discovering on my own. In Nags Head, where I first stayed, I took a lonesome dune hike at Jockey’s Ridge State Park and couldn’t get enough. The dunes were untouched and golden, and the sky was so big and open and bright blue. Like a kid, I pretended I was lost in some desert-filled country (one that just happens to always have a view of mini golf courses and pirate themed restaurants on the horizon). That freedom to be silly made me buoyant. Another day, I checked out the Wright brothers’ monument and historical site and got my dose of inspirational history for the year. I felt gleeful getting to experience all that solo.
 An evening by Corolla, N.C., the upper tip of the Outer Banks. I had no love for the commercial side of the Outer Banks, from the ubiquitous souvenir shops to the over-priced seafood buffets. Luckily, loving coporate glitz isn’t an OBX requirement. Being there at such an empty time allowed me to have my own experience, away from the neon strip mall quality of the place. And when I did hang around people, it felt, to my surprise, like I had known them for a long while.
Enter Laura and Chris, a brother and sister who invited me to park outside their home in Nags Head for several days. I met Laura through Couchsurfing.com (something that is definitely, completely worth you checking you). I liked her immediately. And we become friends about that fast. Whenever that instant connection happens, it’s strange and rare, and it never fails to shock me. I think it surprised Laura too, but I also got the sense that she creates that wherever she goes. She’s a friendly, gregarious lesbian chick who is bald and has no eyebrows due to a medical condition. She also grew up as a Jehovah’s Witness for the first part of her life, so yeah, she knows a little bit about being different. And she plays it off with style and honesty and not a hint of anger. She and her brother always live together and move a lot, and I got the sense that wherever they go, she becomes a minor celebrity. I was floored by this and kept wanting, but not really asking for, her secret. How does one become so damn dynamic? The 1998 middle school version of me was dying to know and still is.
 Chris and Laura and my trailer. Her brother was also a nice, sweet person, and it was hard to leave them both. But like always, I had to keep going. The day I said goodbye to Nags Head the weather was crazy, with rain and storm surges flooding the road that runs north-south on the island. It was only open for a brief time, and I squeezed through that window, though I probably shouldn’t have. I have never experienced anything quite like that drive. I grew up in Northern California, where there are typically cliffs or winding trails separating you from the ocean. But that just isn’t so in the Outer Banks. The only things that weren’t at sea level were the houses on stilts, and even those looked hilariously vulnerable against the power of the waves. The road was terrible, doused with sand and water. Still, I doggedly dragged my trailer down it, at one point going through a 10 mile stretch that was submerged in more than a foot of displaced ocean. In Rodanthe, one of the many closed down beach towns along the way, I pulled over, got out and stood on a dune against the wind. The gusts were so powerful that they could have knocked me over, but I was invigorated. I looked down at all those stilt houses in front of me and couldn’t help but smile. For a moment, I realized what a big adventure I’m on. Then a few people drove by, including a cop, and I got self-conscious and went on my way.
 Somewhere in Ocracoke, N.C. One freezing night and ferry ride later, I arrived on Ocracoke, the Outer Banks’ most remote island. I hear that in the summer it’s completely overrun with people, enough so that many locals try to make their living for the year in those short months. But during my stay it was thankfully, almost completely, deserted. Supposedly, I was sharing the island with 700 year-round Ocracokers, but it felt more like 30 friendly characters taking turns entering whatever scene I happened to be in (Don’t many tiny towns feel like that, really?). Cue the woman working in the general store, whose family has owned that place for decades. Cue that joyous couple, the one that owns Thai Moon, which sells some of the best Thai food I have ever tasted. Cue Robert, the guy who’s working like crazy to get Ocracoke’s first community radio station off the ground. I didn’t feel like one of them, but I was strangely comfortable around nearly every person I met on the island.
The last one I’ll leave you with is Ingrid, the 23-year-old American Swede who invited me to stay with her for those three Ocracoke days (I’m telling you — you must check out CouchSurfing.com). She’s the person I spent the most time around on the island, and though I’m sure she doesn’t know it, she inspired me. She grew up mainly in Sweden but also partially in Ocracoke, and this gave her a comfort with it of which I was almost jealous. She showed me around, pointing out old houses and telling me stories about how the families who founded the town still have descendants there. We went on walks and explored the beaches and the cemeteries. I showed her how to knit. We watched movies. This wasn’t dramatically exciting stuff, but it was great. Probably the lack of drama was what made it so.
 Climbing trees with Ingrid, my Ocracoke buddy. Ingrid was upfront about the fact that she doesn’t know what she is doing with her life, and I took that as a great comfort. It’s nice to be reminded how OK that is. Soon, she’ll leave on a bike ride across America with a few of her friends, but after that, who knows? Maybe she’ll go back to school. Maybe she’ll live for a while in San Diego, where her trip will end. All she was sure of is that she wants to travel. God, I understand that. It’s what to do next that can feel so daunting.
I wish Ingrid the best of luck answering that question for herself in 2010. And I, perhaps selfishly, wish myself luck too. I don’t know how you commit to one spot in the world after being so fluid and traveling for so many months. How do you choose — or does it choose you? I have a sense this is something I’ll have to learn this year. I’m already a bit sad about it. But secretly, I am kind of excited, too.
Happy New Year.
 Jockey's Ridge State Park. Nags Head, N.C.  A sand castle — that just happened to be made of chicken wire and plaster. Nags Head, N.C. 
 Nags Head, N.C.  Orville Wright, in the spot where he and his brother first flew. Kill Devil Hills, N.C.  The Wright brothers' monument. Kill Devil Hills, N.C.  Out by the "lost" colony of Roanoke, near Manteo, N.C.  Little house on the sea. Rodanthe, N.C.  A view from the ferry to Ocracoke from Hatteras, N.C.  Ocracoke, N.C.  Ocracoke, N.C.  What I found on a walk with Ingrid. Ocracoke, N.C.  Feral cats of Ocracoke unite.  No quid were harmed during the making of this picture. I found this little, unfortunate guy on the street in Ocracoke, N.C.  During high tide, this beach is completely submerged. The fellow who started Ocracoke's community radio station was nice enough to take me out to see it. Thanks again, Robert. 
 Duck crossing. Ocracoke, N.C.  Me. Photo by Ingrid.  Ocracoke's lighthouse. Yes, that's an extension cord.  Abner the chihuahua and historic Howard Street. Ocracoke, N.C.  Ingrid.
(NOTE: This was written Christmas night, around 5 p.m.)
(TYBEE ISLAND, Ga.) — Before I write anything else (this post gets painful for a tiny bit), let me say this. Merry Christmas. And if you don’t celebrate Christmas, happy belated Hanukkah or happy holidays. I hope that whoever you are, wherever you are, that your late December has been wonderful — whatever wonderful looks like to you.
OK, on to more sober matters. What happens when you don’t pay attention and don’t take care of yourself? Nothing good. I wish I hadn’t just paid $50 to remind myself of that.
About thirty minutes ago, I was driving my trailerless truck on some moss lined street in Savannah when I came to a stop behind a car at a red light. The light turned green, yet the car didn’t move. I waited 10 seconds. Nothing. Thirty seconds. Nothing. No, I didn’t honk, which I should have. I was in a slightly rough part of town, and I just assumed something weird was going on with the guy in front of me, and the wussy part of me didn’t want to engage. So I decided to back up and go around him, but true to my style, I didn’t look behind me. I simply reversed — right into an older black gentleman’s signature, military veteran license plate. The rest of his shiny, new car wasn’t touched, but the plate now had a hearty crease down the center.
I was apologetic. He was understanding but guarded. I offered him $25 for the damage; he insisted on $50. I fought it a little, trying to explain that I only had $80 to last me for the next two weeks (which is the truth), but he wouldn’t budge. Perhaps I wouldn’t have if I were he either. He told me that maybe I was going to have to pawn something in order to eat, and I was floored by that. The thought had never entered my middle class mind. Without thinking at all, I said, “I don’t do that stuff.” I wish I hadn’t said anything, but I was embarrassed at my lack of money, and felt this need to tell him that it’s temporary. That’s what I have to tell myself. My lack of funds stems from the collapse of the newspaper industry, sir. Really, really.
We drove to an ATM, and I handed him the cash. I drove off and started crying. I was so angry at myself, at my lack of attention to detail, at my propensity to make stupid mistakes. For a few minutes, I listened to a gentle CD my friend had made me and thought about everything I don’t like about myself, from the fact that I lose everything, to the reality that I, often times, say things I don’t do. The cab of my truck was heavy with negativity. One idea that kept running through my mind was that traveling is just like living anywhere else. The lessons are the same; it’s just that the backdrop that changes.
Fifteen miles later, I ended up here, on Tybee Island. It was instinct to come to this small, depopulated town. I keep on thinking that I should really move to a city some day, that I should be a someone in a big, urban way. But the truth is, when I’m looking for comfort, these are the kind of places I want. I like quaint, and I like small. Right now, I’m sitting on wet sand, and the ocean is a few hundred feet away from me. The sun just went down, but it’s not too cold. Hardly anyone else is on the beach, so I’m free to be that girl with the laptop occasionally reading her own writing out loud. This is what I like. Could I hack L.A. or New York? I just don’t know.
The white beach and frothy waves are beautiful, by the way. They’re calming me down, lulling me into a reminder of how completely lucky I am to be here. The fact that I am even able to take this trip is miraculous, really, so much so that I hate to ever start a post off with negativity. I don’t want to seem ungrateful or unaware of the magic around me. I don’t want to be a whiner. But I do have to tell it like it is. And the honest-to-God truth is that being confronted with your foibles always sucks. At least in the moment.
It’s getting impressively dark now, so I should be heading back to my car and driving back to my trailer. I’m glad I came out here. As much as my missteps and issues are running through my head, so are two words that were told to me by Steve, a Methodist pastor who has taken me in for the holidays along with his wife, Cindy. They are mind-bogglingly giving people, and you will hear so much more about them soon. Grace and forgiveness. Those are the words he told me. That’s the heart of his ministry, he said. I might not be a religious person myself, but those words touched me.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful to receive those two things for Christmas? I know that’s a lofty idea, maybe even corny one, but it sounds nice. And the person I really want that from is myself. The notion of being able to accept my own faults is so idyllic that it makes me nearly verklempt. Sitting here, in the now complete dark, I dearly wish I could give myself that.
(HATTERAS, N.C.) — It’s hardly raining in this tiny, shut up town, but the wind is so intense out there that it feels as though I’m in the midst of some great downpour. The trailer is being pitched from side to side, enough that I almost feel like I’m sitting on a boat instead of parked in a strip mall in the middle of the Outer Banks. Actually, a boat is where I should be right now, but they stopped running the ferry to Ocracoke Island a little after dark, about an hour ago. Except for my exposed camping spot, I don’t mind, though. It has been calming to be in my cold trailer and eat warmed canned food at my little dinette set. After a few weeks of constant (and absolutely great) human interaction, it’s perfect to be completely, unglamorously alone now. I like where I am.
This is a change from my last few days when part of me was living in the past and loving it. A few nights ago, my friend Jen from Moab, Utah called. She was giggly and joking with me as her new boyfriend played poker with my old roommate. She sounded ecstatically happy, and while I wasn’t in exactly the same mood, I got a pleasant contact high off her joy. Looking for more the next night, I called another Moab friend, Christy, who is fabulous and soulful and like a second mom to me. We talked for an hour about nothing in particular, and from that I got a shot comfort and understanding right into my heart. For a short time, memories of open desert, red rocks, and some of the best friends I have ever made were wafting through me. Thoughts of my Utah mistakes were as well, but even those had a tinge of nostalgia to them. I steeped in the complexity of both missing Moab and knowing that I can’t go back, at least not yet. The hard thing is that Moab is in my blood and my genes now. Not going back feels, in some small way, like I’m neglecting my family. And I’m not related to anyone there.
Good thing I have had such a nice run in the Tar Heel state to distract me.
North Carolina is not my home, not like the desert or Northern California is, but it still feels comfortable and familiar. The Outer Banks is a string of ghost towns in the winter, which is just how I like it. Though it’s huge, the ocean is a personal thing for me and I, perhaps selfishly, don’t like to share it with anybody. The other day I went running along the beach in Nags Head in the cold morning. It was thankfully desolate. I only saw one person in the far distance, but our paths never crossed. All I could hear were the sounds of the wind, my panting, my shoes hitting the hard sand and the layers of waves, curling and crashing at my side. The tide kept surprising me, kept trying to drench my shoes, but I was able to outrun it more often than not. The most enduring visual of those 45 minutes was the foam, which was blowing off the water. Disks of yellow white fluff were shooting down the beach with the grace of tiny hovercrafts. They were going 20 feet or so before dissipating. This happened again and again. It was subtle, no big thing, but I had never seen anything quite like it, and I felt lucky to be there. I hadn’t been that awake in a while.
 This is about as awesome as multicolored duct tape can look. Wilmington, N.C. North Carolina has been good to me pretty much since the day I entered it. My current Outer Banks evening is reminiscent of my trip’s first night in the state, which was spent in the rainy parking lot of a Panera Bread Co. There is an inexplicable romance to both these experiences. I guess falling for a place can be like falling for a person. It doesn’t necessarily have to make sense to feel real. The weird thing is that this state and I have a long history, and some of it isn’t positive. Anyone who has known me for a long while or been around me I’m feeling confessional knows that I used to visit North Carolina several times a year. From the time I was 18 until I was 22, this place was much of the backdrop for my long distance relationship with a man almost a decade my senior. It was important for both him and me, I think, but standing in the way was the distance thing, the age thing, our insecurities, my lack of world experience and his conservative tendencies. We had a connection but very, very little in common. It never felt real, and I knew I couldn’t do that forever. So, finally, I rejected him. Not so long later, I got scared and tried to crawl back, and he rejected me. The fallout on my end was massive. I entered a deep depression that didn’t fully lift for sixth months, not until I moved out to the desert of New Mexico on my own. Even years after I pulled myself out of that funk, North Carolina still represented nothing more to me than failure, shame and the feeling of being completely, utterly crazy.
Now it doesn’t. That’s a bolt of magic.
 My host, her bling and her friend. Wilmington, N.C. Who or what do I thank for this? Part of me likes the idea that things changed because I did. Maybe everything is different now because I finally came here as a more grown up person, not just someone’s supportive yet painfully awkward girlfriend. I’m sure that’s some of it, as is my huge appreciation of the state’s gorgeous coastline, but perhaps the answer is much more basic than all that. Honestly, I think I simply got lucky and met a bunch of people who were friendly. In Wilmington, there was my Cary Bradshaw-esque host who brought me right into the heart of her world and introduced me to so many of her friends without any reservations. There was that guy, the published author, with whom I could commiserate about the pain and beauty of trying to get stuff down on a page. There was the girl with whom I had such an intense and focused conversation over a few beers. There was the bartender who gave me half a dozen CDs. And that’s just a taste. Even here in the Outer Banks, I have still managed to find strangers who have wide-open arms for me. You’ll hear more about them soon. I only want to explain that this North Carolina beauty and ease seems to be everywhere.
So when I say I like this state, know that I am biased. On this trip and in my life, I have yet to find much that feels better than being around people who welcome me. Right now, I can’t separate my experience of North Carolina from that warm, sweet surge of acceptance. I can’t and I don’t want to.
 Christmas in Wilmington, N.C.  Downtown Wilmington.  My host, Alyssa, dressing down for a night out in Wilmington.  Good meeting you.
(WILMINGTON, N.C.) — I am still in North Carolina, but yes, I am going to do a short post about another state again. Soon I will be all caught up, at least I hope. It’s still strange to be hit with so many new places and so many experiences at once, especially after doing about five years of newspaper jobs, all of which had a definite structure to them. For all their stress, I loved them, and I hope to go back to that world someday. But right now, it feels right to be out of it. Before I started at papers, I had no sense of what my profession might be. Then, after working at one daily publication as a photographer and then at another as an arts and enterainment editor, I felt as though I had a defined career. I kind of liked the ring of that, of being able to say that I was a working journalist. Now, I’m back out on the wide open seas and while it sometimes gets me down, I think I’m at ease with it. I’ve got no title, no concrete profession and no set game plan. I only know that I want to keep writing. Sometimes all this feels perfect, and sometimes it feels lame. But at least it is mine.
Anyway, for the last few weeks I was in Northern California visiting my family as I attempted to figure out exactly what I am doing next. I get to do this about once a year, so I tried to savor it. I didn’t come up with many answers, but being in that part of the world was an answer to something in itself. It reminded me how much I miss that place. San Rafael, where I mostly grew up, doesn’t have its hooks in me much, but Arcata, where I went to college, really does. I love the cold and the green and the overall feeling in the air that everything is, as we NorCal kids really do say, “all good.” No matter where I am on the coast between the Oregon border and San Francisco, I get that feeling full blast.
One spot I visited in particular was Mendocino, a historic little town on Hwy. 1. I lived there for a few years in my childhood, and now it’s like my secret lover from the past with whom I can never actually settle down. It’s beautiful and quiet, a kind of sanctuary, and I love it perhaps more than anywhere I have ever lived. When it comes to pristine, breathtaking beaches, craggy tide pools and undeveloped ocean front, nowhere in the East has anything on that town. But I can’t move back. It’s no place to be young, unless you have a great game plan that can include living in a community of 1,000. I have a friend who moved away from there when she was in her twenties or thirties because she knew she would never find a man in all that rugged beauty. That was the 1970s, and I can’t imagine anything has changed that in that department since.
But my heart still lives there, part-time at least. Here are some pictures from Mendocino and the miles of Hwy. 1 that connects the village and its surroundings to San Francisco.
I miss it already.
 Hwy. 1 on a cloudy, cold weekday. My favorite kind of day.  Somewhere between Mendocino and Pt. Arena.  Moo. Somewhere between Mendocino and Gualala.  There's one in every family.  I love this. 
 Mendo headlands.  Mendocino, a fuller view.  A Mendocino ritual I have yet to do.  Portuguese Beach, two blocks from my old house in Mendocino. 
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