3 Weekends — Molly Margaret Meyer

Disclaimer: this was written in rough-hewn chunks over too much time, and was at times tooth-pulling. Life got minor-ly chaotic with Aylin moving back to Turkey and Liz moving in and all the cleaning and organizing in-between and I had trouble keeping the rhythm of writing, but the poor pictures shouldn't have to pay the piper so here it is. Anyway it's finished and now on to the next!

To clarify: my weekends are comprised of Mondays and Tuesdays, which sucks for some Normal Person stuff (I missed Hardly Strictly Bluegrass again this year), but is in other ways ideal. Since Rama works for himself he sets his own schedge, and so on my off days we are privileged to go to some very beautiful places and oftentimes have them more or less to ourselves. Plus the traffic getting there's usually pretty minimal, and any restaurants we may wander into along the way aren't too swarmed. This is good for Rama's Road Rage and for my more general impatience, and it's frankly magic to frequently find ourselves the only two folks in some garjuhss spot. We're getting pretty spoiled about it: Muir Beach on a Saturday? Fuck to the no.

Re-reading I don't want to come off braggy or complacent. While I like my unconventional schedule, I also cope with ye olde customer-service-work woes, and I lack the trimmings and trappings of the Fancy Career Job (e.g. the Big Buck$). Thinking on this brings me to a larger worry I'm wary (and weary) of: some social media mediums run the risk of coming off like 'My Perfect Life' slideshows of douchebaggery, and that curatorial stuff is fraught. I kind of hate Facebook (though, manipulative tip: it is useful for sharing a new song you're digging--I think people are more likely to click a link they're publicly tagged in than one emailed), so I can't speak as much to that, but I use my Instagram a lot. I like having a diary of my time (I can't even tell you how often I reference my account to remember the whens), and I like taking fotes and sharing them. I am also aesthetically specific, keen on clean compositions, picky in my sensibilities, and am in my gut an Editor (as opposed to the more romantic notion of self as Arteest). I think even this editorial impulse is something to stay on top of, because you should be conscious of what you're cropping out, and every act of creation is also an act of destruction blah blah, etc.. Anywho, I like looking at my Instagram and feeling serene about its quilt of nice tidy lines and gently blending color schemes (though it's a bit of a hodgepodge right now).

But I never, ever, want to be coming across like some smug perfect life bullshitter. My life is good right now, and I'm humbled with thanks for the dumb luck and the bones thrown, and am trying to feel my agency in the stuff I've had a hand in. I'm generally pretty adept at holding myself accountable for choices made, and at making those choices with eyes wide open. I have a couple brain refrains: "'Take what you want, and pay for it,' says God" and then Tom Waits's succinct "Everything costs." At times in my past when I was choosing things that weren't making me happy, I was never blindsided, always knew my hand in it, and never felt like a victim. It's vital to see your own power, even if it's by acknowledging your own "bad" choices. You made them for a reason, maybe as a lesson you were taking your own time in learning. Trust your gut, remember you're a Subject and not the polished object the word would have you think. Have a story and be its protagonist--this is especially hard I think for women. Or, to quote Rebecca Solnit: "To spin the web and not be caught in it, to create the world, to create your own life, to rule your fate, to name the grandmothers as well as the fathers, to draw nets and not just straight lines, to be a maker as well as a cleaner, to be able to sing and not be silenced, to take down the veil and appear: all these are banners on the laundry line I hang out." Taken here out of context, but you get the idea. (That "to draw nets" bit kills me.)

Chance and fate are there own wonky factor it's harder to account for, and I've been mulling a lot about luck, or cards dealt, or however you want to think of it. On my way back home from work (traveling between gentrifying pockets) I pass through some rough places, habited by people whose lives seem inconceivably rough and probably have been from birth. I've always felt kind of terrified at my own good luck, being born here, now, into a loving family and comfortable financial circumstances, with a capable brain and a healthy body (much wood-knocking). So many others are positioned in far more challenging contexts, some in situations so shitty it's hard even to conceive of them. I remind myself regularly of this Robert Hass line: "Everyone their own devastation. Each on its own scale." Much of my bad stuff's been second-hand, but there have been unequivocal tragedies. There's another more ambiguous poetry bit (Czeslaw Milosz) that comes into my head when I think about this stuff:

Moments from yesterday and from centuries ago--

A sword blow, the painting of eyelashes before a mirror

Of polished metal, a lethal musket shot, a caravel

Staving its hull against a reef--they dwell in us,

Waiting for a fulfillment.

I don't know why exactly, but it makes me feel better. I hope we get multiple goes. I hope it's not just One Shot, and, for some, it's shit. I hope we're linked. I hope we're all different parts of the same big thing. I hope it's somehow fair, and there's someone or something out there seeing to it.

I know my privilege and the responsibility that comes with it, and I'm still trying to figure out how to, in my own way, pay back some. I know I'm not cut out for many forms of service. Boundaries are not my forte--I'm very sponge-like with other people's feelings--and, for me at least, good fences do make good neighbors. I'm a lot better at being good to others when I'm being good to myself. Charity starts at the home (self = home), and self-care is paramount to service beyond self. These have been been hard-learned truths for me. Until I uncover my way to put my mere shoulder to the wheel, I focus on love as a verb, on wrassling down my quick-flaring temper, on being a less clogged-up channel of peace. I try to be kind. Joanna's solution to "this...world of terrible hardship everywhere" is that "kindness prevails, kindness prevails," and it is the curious byproduct of pain endured that, after, it is "only kindness that makes sense anymore" (Naomi Shihab Nye).

This ended up being a major rambling tangent and I don't know if it will make sense to anyone but me, but basically what I'm saying is I'm happy and I don't want to be superficial or take it for granted. I want to keep growing and I want to stay grateful (I think that's one of the keys on the ring). Recording the good things is for me an exercise in this. And so:

Weekend 1

Rama and his siblings have a property in Nevada City, and their dad, who is a mostly retired carpenter and builder, is its live-in steward. He likes keeping busy, and is constantly at work improving the place. The project de l'année is a wraparound porch to help cool the house in the hot times and to have all that sweet additional outdoor living space. I fucking love porches and I can't wait to coffee out there in the morning and beer out there at dusk. Rama goes up from time to time to help out, and we have a fun little routine around it. As I mentioned, my work week starts on Wednesdays, and on Wednesday evening Rama rolls up to NC, then Thursday morning gets down to business with his dad. They bust it out for a few days, and then after my brunch shift Sunday (TGIF) I take the the evening Amtrak train up to Auburn. I really love it, and read and make long phone calls and listen to music in a focused fashion and journal and take pictures of all the industrial/delta train-window vistas. Then Rama picks me up, and we either grab dinner at the Auburn Alehouse or he tupperwares me whatever deliciousness he and his dad enjoyed at home earlier. We get to the house, and I pause to admire the driveway stars (to riff on a baby Maddy observation: they have better stars in Nevada City than they do in Oakland). The next couple days Rama usually puts in a couple hours with his dad (and I wander around plant-peeping or just straight chillin', oftentimes hammocked in R's nursery), and then in the afternoon we do some low-grade venturing or pay our river visits. Evening-time Rama and I cook (to clarify: I prep-cook to R's master chef) whatever meal we've been recently into. I love that Richard, R's dad, who is (as am I) a somewhat utilitarian cook when he's making food for himself, gets spoiled with Rama's skillz whenever R's up there. Then after din we watch a movie or just listen to music and chat.

I love these visits and their pleasing rhythms, but for our trip to see Will Oldham at the Miners Foundry we switched it up, driving east-north-east togeths Sunday evening September 27 (Blood Moon all the way--also Franz's birthday), and then come Wednesday I took the early morning commuter train back down to O-town. That Sunday night we stopped off at the Auburn Alehouse for burr and a salad and fish taco split (neither especially tasty), then on to the casa.

Mornings: Richard is first up and starts the coffee. When the coffeemaker strangles out its finished! gurgle Rama gets up to pour our cups. He brings me mine then joins his dad in the living room to read and sip. I phone-out in bed for another ten while Poundy snoozes on his taco, then relocate to the couch with my book, or, as on this trip, my computer to blog out on thee bloggity blog. A couple minutes later Poundo shuffles in head-down and bee-lines for the couch, hopping up to bury his face in the space between the sofa and my butt, falling back into a grumpy slumber. It's very cute.

Rama and I had brought up with us some leftovers from my mom's business trip/visit that past proper weekend: she makes these insanely tasty potato tacos with crispy tortilla shells (flour is best), stuffed with fried mashed potato, jack cheese, and cilantro. Breakfast-time Rama re-heated some of these and added scrambled eggs--we glopped on some medium taco sauce and I am literally salivating at the memory. So we ate those, then I wrote on bed while R and R "rolled out underlayment to cover bare OSB" (the quotation marks signify not skepticism but total ignorance on my end).

After some hours they were finished and Rama and I headed to the river, Poundo (and his trusty life-vest--little dude's solid muscle and is prone to sinking) in tow. Since we were short on time we went to The Spot--the jaw-droppingly gorge go-to swimming hole at the Old Highway 49 Bridge, where years back I had my first look at the Yuba. (It's also where Rama and I met.) The light was already getting that leaving look with the shortening days, and we waded halfway across the river to "make camp" on some flat rocks. I sun-screened up and drank a can of beer while Rama and Poundo tootled around, Rama enthralled with his goggles and Poundo with various floating pieces of wood. After the requisite fifteen-ish minutes I was hopefully soaked-in lotion-wise and joined them. The river actually had a pretty good flow going despite the drought/long hot summer, and was really clear and lovely and a fairly comfy temp to boot. I had bought a waterproof phone bag at Marshalls (or Ross) for like five dollars, and, aside from my reservations about a possible correlation between cheapness and effectiveness, I was entertained by having my phone's camera feature in the river. I couldn't see what I was shooting too well through water droplets and sunscreen smear and didn't get any killer shots, but I'm looking forward to using it again.

After a couple hours we rolled out, dropped P off at the house, and hit SPD for the rest of our dinner ingredients. We'd made a gnocchi dish a couple times (inspired by the one Ma had made the last time we were home) we thought Richard might enjoy. We do shallots, asparagus, and peas with Rama's effing delish cream sauce of goat milk, flour, garlic, s&p. He usually makes the sauce in mushy times to go with black trumpets, but it's nice to have it a little earlier in the year. We also sautéed some beet greens with lemon and garlic y entonces, chow time. I'm writing this too long after the fact and can't remember what movie we watched, but I think it was No Country for Old Men--great movie, great book, exemplary adaptation.

The next morning Richard and Rama put a skylight thing in the part of the porch over the kitchen sink window, and then Richard took a nap while Rama and I made a "bomb salad," or what Rama has dubbed "the labor-intensive salad." It's so good, and here's how to make it: hard-boil some eggs and boil some beets--Rama likes to use the same pot. Cook some quinoa, put some pepitas on a cast iron, and then toss all this with some olive-oiled arugula, avo, crumbled feta, and garbanzo beans. UM, YUM. We left R's dad a bowl to chomp upon waking and headed to the river, this time sans Mister P (sorry P).

This afternoon we crossed the bridge and made our way down one of the treacherous little poison-oak-edged dirt trails to the swimming holes slightly upriver the bridge; I was wearing my (hideous) Walgreens off-brand Crocs, which have very smooth soles, and I found myself literally skiing the granite rock-faces down to the river. Always a fun spot though, and we passed a couple hours swimming around in the different holes and caves like kids at a water park.

This is person-sized and deep enough that you're submerged to your shoulders.

Late-light go-time. We crossed the river to ascend the rocks on the other side, and I went barefoot which was infinitely less slippery.

Back at the house our scheme had been to blister some Padrón peppers to go with melty goat cheese and fried almonds (we'd had this dish at the 20th Century Cafe in SF and it was sublime) as a pre-pizza-place appetizer. Had we but world enough and time. We scratched that, Rama and I got presentable, and then we and Richard, after a spell of sunset-gaping, made the short drive into town.

We hit Northridge Pizza for their Greek and some Racers. Then on to BPB at the Foundry: the sound was better than when we saw the Chris Robinson Brotherhood (so was the music), but the musical stylings were going in a jam-band direction which always makes me o so sleepy. They did play "Strange Form of Life" which I like a lot, and I was again struck by Will Oldham's vocal virtuosity and range, as well as his niceness. It was all in all enjoyable if slightly soporific, and I crashed almost immediately upon our return home.

Then early to rise for the train ride back, which was at first peaceful and then crappy as more and more pushy business commuters piled shoutingly on. Madz picked me up from the Emeryville station in her Brand New Ride (I was its first passenger which seems fitting) and we got Rick and Ann's as a rainy day celebratory brunch.

Weekend 2

Rama's and my anniversary is October 7th. People have different ways of choosing their anniv: we mark the day we met. The story of that's a good one, but this blog entry is already so woefully after-the-happening I'm going to save it for another time. We didn't get to hardcore celebrate last year because the weekend of my dad had health stuff and Madz and I flew down South short-notice. It seemed we'd be stymied again this our second go-around as Rama was embroiled in the process of evicting his long-non-paying tenant, and their initial court date was set for October 6th. I was low-impact bitching about this to Maggie at work and she, quite rightly, pointed out that we are Doing Stuff all the time anyway. Imma brat. Rama and I decided to postpone the Celebration, but I'd hang out and we'd eke out some fun around the tedious BS.

And so Monday morning we briefly hit Petaluma so Rama could have his tenant sign a document, then we paid a visit to the quiche 'n' tasty Tea Room where we split a scrut autumnal hash with a potato-pancake side. After that over to the Santa Rosa Courthouse so Rama could file a document, and then on to Esan's and Nicole's in Novato. We took a little siesta then walked Poundo and his pop Heph to the neighborhood park for a friz-bah sesh--ah the burbs.

Back to the house for a doggie-drop, and then we strolled over to the grocery to pick up dinner ingredients to thank Esan and Nicole for their hospitaliano. We made the same gnocchi we'd done for Rama's dad, plus some lemony dandelion greens and R's famous garlic bread. We watched a weird AI-themed movie, then early to bed to rise to head back to Santa Rosa, where we were their first Whole Foods customers of the day. We scarfed our breakfast buffet boxes in the courthouse parking lot, then filed in to the courtroom. This was the second time I've sat in on court proceedings (we visited R's judge cousin at the Long Beach courthouse), and it's actually pretty enthralling, even when it's about really boring shit. I think Maddy would find it fascinating. We thought this would be the first legal speed-bump of many and were pleasantly gob-smacked when R and his tenant, with the aid of a clerk, worked out an agreement and received a judicial stamp. And lo R had an out-date for his tenant and a payment plan for money owed in unpaid rent (though according to those in the know it's unlikely Rama'll see a dime of it). Anyway it eased Rama's mind considerably to have a concrete move-out date, and we dazedly rolled over to Sebastopl to grab a salad and a beer on the veranda of a hip-to-the-hop spot called the Woodfour Brewing Company. Unsure what to do next we did the vehicular equivalent of aimless ambling over to a couple nearby vintage stores (regrettably I think I do better with more curated stuff--I'm too impatient and easily icked by ugly shit). We both had the camping itch but our gear was all garaged in Oakland, and then R romantisch-ly suggested seeing if Nick's Cove had any availability. They did--lots of it--and we booked Uncle Andy's, the same cabin we'd stayed in previously that we'd very much enjoyed. We zoomed back to Esan's and Nicole's to grab our stuff (P would there remain--R wasn't feeling the pet fee or P's diva ways), then ran into the grocery store for beer and a celebratory bottle of bub (we did the Sofia, which isn't the yummiest--I prefer something very dry and yeasty--but is aesthetically festive). We drove by a fresh accident on Novato Boulevard--a truck had apparently lost control--then on to Marshall to arrive an hour or two before sunset.

We checked in and made a dinner reservation for what we calculated would be post-sunset, then crossed the road to get sitched in our cabin. Rama gets majorly chubbified by Amenities, and Nick's Cove has charming perks: a gently-stocked gratis mini-fridge, complimentary in-room baby brekkie, and BBQed oysters delivered upon arrival. Weird thing: before this stay I'd ventured to try only one other oyster. It was at my ex-bf's mom's 60th birthday BBQ shindig, and I was not a fan. It was at once meaty and fishy, and sickeningly big. This Nick's Cove stay I tried one of our complimentary crustaceans (actually mollusks, but alliteration in this instance > accuracy) and actually enjoyed it. (Yes but what about oysters? Unsightly like a clot of phlegm. Filthy shells. Devil to open them too. Who found them out?)

I was keeping a close eye on the sun to get the optimal dock-light, and we rolled out accordingly with a couple cans, and had some QT out there before dinner. I've said it before but I'll say it again--Tomales Bay is perhaps actually magic.

After dark we headed in for dinner. We split the salad with its yumdiddle buttermilk dressing, and then Rama had the boeuf bourguinon and I the risotto side, which was really dry and box-of-rice-like and not good and gooey like I like. (If I'm doing a baby food review I want to mention our server was very gracious and old-school and great.) We were closing down the restaurant with our convo-ing and took dessert--some kind of fruity panna cotta per R's desires--back to our room. Not as sexy as it sounds however--Rama had a bee in his bonnet that I immediately needed to see Space Balls (I haven't seen Star Wars either k late), and the last thing I recall before drifting off is a revolting pizza monster shedding black olives and cheese glops.

The next morning we awoke to enjoy the the purr-inducing luxury that is a heated bathroom floor, which is, weirdly probably, one of my favorites features of Nick's Cove.

Ordinarily I would work Wednesday night, but upon waking I texted the other Flora Molly on the off-chance she'd feel like picking up my shift, which she did, responding swiftly and with the sweetest feliciations. Thanks Moller!

We had delivered our totes adorbs breakfast tray and took our coffees out to the dock.

Some POS stole the painted wooden fish that used to hang here.

Then back to the room, some luxuriating, a shower in the wonderful bathroom, and back on the dusty trails with the whole day stretching ahead of us.

On a romantical whim, and now that I was tentatively game, we pulled over for a go at the Hog Island Oyster Company. It was thankfully a shuck-your-own day (we've gone again since when it wasn't, and the relative priciness of the F-M boat bar's pre-shucked offerings induced major Rama grumble-age). We got at the window an iced tray with four kumamotos (the woman called them "koomies") and eight of the small Hog Island ones--I don't know what varietal. So they set you up with your oysters on ice, a knife and a thick cut-off shucking glove, lemon wedges, a wonderfully vinegary mignonette sauce, Tapatío, and fresh-grated horseradish. I've come to horseradish late in life, and I'm bewitched. I want us to grow some in future dream garden (and Padrón peppers).

I didn't care for the "koomie" I tried--too organ-like--but the Hog Island ones, which Rama shucked and sauced to perfection (with my preferred overabundance of lemon), had me feeling the oyster hype. So icy and clean--it really is like you're eating the sea itself. We feasted on these and some sourdough and our bub. Classic Anniv.

Then back on the back roads toward Novato.

We stopped at a dope Poo-Town (Petaluma) "produce stand"--some very plentiful and artfully arranged tables in a vaulted barn--and Rama bought some meat for a P and a really beautiful tomato.

We'd decided to keep the party going and camp at Bodega; our gear was still in Oakland, but we cobbled together sleeping arrangements by borrowing E's and N's tent and a couple down comforters. We grabbed P and the stuff and then on our way out of Novato saw another very recent accident in the exact same spot as the day before, which was a little eerie.

In Bodega we split a big bowl of clam chowder at Lucas Wharf (which I only ever think of as the restaurant with the huge Charlie Brown outside); it hit the spot in a major way, and then we proceeded to the Bodega Dunes campground, which we prefer vastly to Doran down the road. We got set up in the spot that seemed the least wind-whipped, then, even though we were both feeling like conking out at seven PM, hopped in the car to get dinner. The major bummer was Terrapin Creek is closed Wednesdys--we had had a memorable early "date" there, and the food is really special. I'd unreservedly recommend the place to even the most snooty foodie. Foiled, we got dinner at The Sandpiper instead--we split fish and chips (subbing over-dressed salad for the chips) and a very sub-par crème brulée with "seasonal berries" that consisted of an unlikely-looking strawberry plopped down on the brulée. The fish though was hot and good and warmed us until we made it back to the tent. We didn't have much for padding--no moving blankets or air mattress--and sand isn't as soft as it should be. Rama let me borrow his down vest to cushion my hip bones (#grannystatus) and we slept well enough.

The next morning we made coffee then hiked with our cups through the dunes to the sea.

Rama found a big stump he just had to have, and proceeded to heroically haul it out over hills and valleys so deep.

For lunch we split a crab sando at The Sandpiper. I was underwhelmed but tickled that on our impromptu "romantic getaway" we had checked off all the touristy sea-food must-eats: BBQed oysters, fresh oysters, clam chowder, fish and chips, and crab roll. Then back to Oakland and the work-week.

Weekend 3

I'd been to Port Costa (I always think of it as "porta costa" dunno why) once or twice before years back, but I think it was before the Bull Valley Roadhouse was in its current ultra-hip incarnation. Our friend Courtney had gone to a spooky art opening at Port Costa's Burlington Hotel Friday evening, and knowing what Hallowieners we are let us know that the town would be ween-ing out and open late all weekend. We didn't know what to expect, but Sunday evening Madz, Melanie, Rama, and I got dolled up and paid a visit. There wasn't actually too much going on (the dang hotel had closed early), but we peeped a crafty Halloween shop and the town itself has a pleasingly hainted feel, so it was a festive enough outing. Plus we got to check the quiche restaurant, which is very atmospheric with its creepy bluegrass Pandora and candlelit ambiance. We dined at the bar; the service was fairly disorganized (we ordered multiple dishes that they ticked were 86ed ten minutes after the fact, etc.), but they were very apologetic and comp-y and certainly made it right. We also learned that Carter Beats the Devil (Flora's most signature-y signature and the only cocktail I ever order there) has become a ubiquitous Bay Area drink, which is sort of neat.

Good times, cool spot, but I do prefer my small towns coastal. It's strange but otherwise I feel in a place a subtle claustrophobic hum. I'd been leafing through California Classics, a book my dad lent me, and there's a bit from the photographer Edward Weston's journal:

"It seems so utterly naive that landscape--not that of the pictorial school--is not considered of 'social significance' when it has a far more important bearing on the human race of a given locale than excrescences called cities. By landscape, I mean every physical aspect of a given region--weather, soil, wildflowers, mountain peaks--and its effect on the psyche and physical appearance of the people."

Lawrence Clark Powell (the book's author) goes on to muse: "Here is a good subject for a book: the influence of California's geography on its people." I was kind of laughing about the square old-school-iness, but I've had it in my head since in a broader sense. I know next to nothing about city planning, but I have tremendous respect for the significance of creating the spaces in which people pass their days. I'm very affected by my surroundings, to a fault--a messy room means a messy mind for me. (And I can let it get pretty dang messy.)

Rama and I recently passed through Jenner and went down to the driftwood beach at the Russian River mouth. We ensconced ourselves in a newer, cabana-like, kind of de-luxe driftwood structure, half pretending we were enjoying our beers somewhere tropical, and from our oceanfront vantage we were talking about death and what we thought might follow, about being reborn and ghosts and all. In my Catholic grammar school "other religions" curriculum I remember the basic idea of Buddhism being explained as all life being an ocean, and each individual life a wave that rises up, has its ride, and then rejoins the bigger body. This has seemed as true and possible to me as anything, and I wonder if it would resonate in the same way with a person who didn't grow up alongside the ocean. It's hard for me to imagine the vast "middle" swath of this country and people who have never seen the sea, and I wonder what features formed their thinking. I've no doubt it's shaped my mind being by the sea, given me a sense of my smallness and also a feeling of boundlessness, of ever-extending horizons and constant rhythms and unceasing movement. The ocean is like, powerful. Back to weekend three:

Rama and I decided we'd get a proper camp in at Stillwater Cove. We stopped at one of R's little forage-y spots along the way so he could pick some fresh watercress (yes!), then onward.

Once again our fave site 10 was ocupado, but we got the tent and air mattress set in our back-up spot, then drove up to Gualala for a grocery run, with a few (unconsummated) surf peeps along the way.

For dinner we made very delicious potato tacos (stuffed with fresh watercress). Rama got a new double burner thang so I was able to help with actual cooking instead of being limited to my usual slow-pokey chopping, which was nice.

Next morning we reconnoitered a dawn-patrol, first checking the surf spot called "Secrets."

Then a peek at Sea Ranch.

And finally a sesh at Point Arena. Rama had never actually surfed there before, and apparently it's home to a somewhat famously long right. He got to enjoy it with minimal crowding as he paddled out at a tidular (neologism) off-time.

In an attempt to avoid the weirdos on the pier I hunkered down on a blanket water-side to read while Rama surfed, a little ways farther up the rocky beach pictured above. After an hour or so Rama was sated and paddled in; as we were packing up to leave an arriving surfer told us the cliffs there were constantly coming down, and it was a probably a gnarly spot for me to have been hanging out. On cue some ominous pebbles trickled down behind us. Yeesh.

We stopped again at Secrets so Rama could ponder a second sesh. We parked, I got out, and moments after a medium-sized branch crashed down right outside my car door. Rama was metaphorically struck by it, and felt that the consecutive-day car accidents on Novato Boulevard the week before, the pebbles at Point Arena, and then the branch were all a message from the universe 'reminding him to be looking out for my safety.' While I'm pretty good at getting a read on people, I don't think I'm especially intuitive or psychic. I play from the gut, but I don't feel really receptive to cosmic communiques. Rama does, and tries to heed these nudges (he always says he felt something pulling him to the river the day we met, which is cool.)

Anyway he didn't bite on Secrets, and so we got to enjoy our tradition of sunset bub at this spot on the cliffs we love.

The next morning we stopped to peer at the socked-in Russian River mouth, and then at Cafe Aquatica for The Best Clam Chowder, a potato-laden, heavily black-peppered, not over-thick or creamy hippie rendition.