The General Situation

Cool You Can Carry

Overheard in the locker room today (September 17): "I need to start taking vitamin D. I have terrible seasonal affective disorder."

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Adam was helping his mom with something this afternoon, so I had to go alone to the farmer's market. The sun was blazing, and I was having a difficult time negotiating the crowds, selecting and paying for produce, and carrying my purchases—including crushable items like tomatoes and strawberries. All of which is to say I was relieved to get back to my car, where I found a parking ticket.

I am what's known as a "rules person," in that I respect rules at almost all costs, so this was upsetting. And baffling, because the block allowed for 75 minutes of parking, and I was there for less than an hour. My defense:

• I parked at 3:40 p.m. I walked the one block to the market, tried to buy avocados at 3:45 p.m., and was rebuffed because the market bell hadn't run. I killed the 15 minutes by strolling a bit.

• Could I have been in a loading zone? No. After I parallel-parked—flawlessly—I opened the passenger door to make sure I was near the curb. That's only relevant because I also noticed that the curb wasn't painted green or yellow, signifying a much smaller parking limit.

• I finished loading up my car at 4:28 p.m. Unfortunately, it only occurred to me to photograph the ticket alongside my clock while I was driving on the 101 freeway. 

I tried to contest it as soon as I got home, of course, but my citation wasn't in the system yet. How do you prove you weren't somewhere?

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You know you're somewhere rural when....

Yosemite Slam

We're just back from a week up north: Yosemite National Park, San Francisco, and Livermore for my nephew's wedding. The wedding was perfect, and it was a delight to see my nephew so happy. San Francisco is still not my favorite city, but I enjoyed the food. (I can recommend Cala, Rintaro, and Cotogna restaurants.) 

As for Yosemite, I know I went there as a child, because I remember the T-shirts that said "Go climb a rock," which I thought were brilliant. (Still do, and I wish the gift shops sold them.) But I didn't recall much else about it. So entering the valley was a gorgeous shock.

The valley is astounding, with sheer cliffs everywhere you look. It's also a bit park-like, rather than nature-like: There are a ton of people, and many paths are paved. It wasn't unpleasant, but it wasn't what I think of as hiking. That's not to say the scenery was anything other than spectacular. On our first of two days, we hiked up to the top of Vernal Falls....

And then we hiked to get the view of the valley I posted above, followed by a short walk to see Bridal Veil Falls. When the wind picks up, the water gets blown to the right.

We stayed at the famous Ahwahnee Lodge. I can't say I was disappointed, because expectations were low: From my experience at the Furnace Creek Inn (which now has a new name) at Death Valley, I knew that Aramark, the concessionaire that runs the National Parks property, is simply not up to the task. The building is stunning, the location impeccable; everything else is Motel 6, but at much higher prices. I'm not proud to admit I've become the kind of person who answers the surveys that hotels send after the stay, and this one got an earful. The food and beverage manager even called to follow up, but what else was there to say? The food is awful and extremely overpriced, and the service is generally awkward at best. Plus, the bar area stank so bad I had to hold my breath every time I got three steps in.

Our room was one of the 1920s cottages behind the lodge. The exterior was cute, but for two days I had to hear about the pea under the mattress poor quality of the sheets.

On our second day, on the advice of an engaging young woman working in the bar (where the cheaper breakfast is available), we went outside the valley for a hike to and above May Lake. There were a handful of other hikers, which was actually helpful, because the trail wasn't particularly marked. The views were insane, although the high altitude made for slow going.

Two last thoughts: 1) I need to rethink that shirt. And 2) The website Yosemite Hikes is really, really good—so good that I sent a fan letter. (Unrequited, alas.) If you're going to the park, you should absolutely use it.

Sticky Situations

The other night, Adam and I were at Bettina, the restaurant here that we love. (We're having the owners over for dinner tomorrow, an exciting social leap for us.) There were a dozen people at the table next to ours; I think they were Italians, but Italians after a day at the beach—a little fried and sloppy. And there were at least three very young children, one of whom which was rolling his toy car back and forth on the banquette, inches from Adam's leg. Adam was sitting like Queen Elizabeth; kids in restaurants do not bring out his fun, tolerant side. I looked over at the mother, who was busy breastfeeding an infant, hoping I could make productive eye contact, but she seemed to be giving a dirty look to Adam, as if he was somehow at fault. (The father was MIA.) Before we knew it, the kid was playing under our table.

"They'll be gone soon," whispered our server.

Sure enough, they got up to leave in a matter of minutes. And then the mother came over. "We understand," said Adam, convinced that she must be about to apologize for her inability to control her child, and he waved her and the matter off with his hand. The woman started to speak—I think she was searching for the right words in English—and Adam kept going: "Really, it's not a big deal. We're fine." But what she really wanted was permission to retrieve a toy from under our table.

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I've become friendly with a guy I occasionally see at the café I frequent after swimming. But we're not so close that I haven't told him to stop asking if Adam and I have bought a house yet. As my family members know, I'd rather wait till I have news to discuss the matter, because what is there to say at this point? We looked at a nice house that was more expensive than we'd like, and a charming old house that needs more work than we want to do, and a small house on a suburban street—any of them could work. And maybe one day we'll decide to move forward on one of them. Maybe not.

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Today, my café friend told me that he's been reading my Santa Barbara real estate blog, which was helpful: If I think a local is reading it, I find myself wanting to write more. Tomorrow, I email area brokers about it, which I guess is really the official start of this project....

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If you like Renée Zellweger, and maybe even if you don't, I recommend Jonathan Van Meter's profile of her in New York magazine. The combination of a smart celebrity and a good writer whom she trusts can lead to a very interesting article. I do wish it had mentioned Down With Love, an appealing riff on the Doris Day/Rock Hudson movies.

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Adam recently discovered Renegade Wines, a store here that I told him about years ago. The other day, I spotted this note there—it reminded me of when we were in Australia, and a couple from Sydney asked us if we wanted to join them for a sticky after dinner.