Unlikely Words

The fourth day started with an early departure from Los Altos. Neither of us were feeling particularly well, so in addition to a cooler full of ice, bottled water, fruit, trail mix, and mini-muffins, we purchased some zinc lozenges, and started sucking them down as fast as the package advised. It was our farewell trip up the Junipero Serra highway, so to properly bid adieu to good old I-290 we decided to finally stop at one of the “vista points” we’d seen advertised. The view was, indeed, lovely.

At around Half Moon Bay, we decided to turn on the iPod for some music and discovered that the FM transmitter we’d brought didn’t seem to work. There was a short period of disappointment as we pondered three long days of driving without anything other than each other to listen to, before Rachel remembered something: the Apple Store.

Yes, that’s right, the Apple Store again. This time we got there so early it wasn’t open yet (a fact we were able to ascertain from the line of pilgrims around the corner). We decided that this was our chance to start the day with something a little healthier than a handful of blueberry mini-muffins, so we popped into a little breakfast place around the corner, and had eggs, potatoes, and sausage. Yum. Thus fortified, we were able to dash into the store, buy the most expensive iPod car adapter they offered, beg the parking attendant to move the cars he’d valet parked in front of ours, and hit the road.

The Golden Gate Bridge really is quite something to drive over. It is a very big bridge. The full scale of it (and of the Golden Gate itself) can’t really be appreciated except from the other side. Fred and Lisa advised us to skip the “official” vista point at the end of the bridge, and to instead take the first exit north of the bridge, for the Marin Headlands. A short drive up the hill to Battery Spencer, one of the forts protecting the bay from invaders that never materialized, provided spectacular views.

The next major portion of the drive was through the city of Santa Rosa and its environs, and I don’t want to cast too many aspersions on a town I’ve only seen from the highway, but I have to say: Santa Rosa stinks. I mean this literally, the whole drive through the greater Santa Rosa area smelled like… well, it smelled like the greater Santa Rosa area farted. Our planned route was to dash over from CA-101 to US-1 (on the coast) via CA-128, which is a darling little highway. It winds up and down hills, past farms and wineries, and it was beautiful. Route 1 was beautiful, with big beautiful trees and the ocean. It was beautiful, but long, and I was starting to get pretty hungry, and little queasy, and probably a little grumpy, so it was a relief to pull into the quaint little town of Mendocino. It’s got quite a cute little array of shops, but most importantly it had public bathrooms and a restaurant. (Not as many restaurants as I would have expected… could be a business opportunity.) We also bought some frankly mediocre fudge. We started speculating as to whether fudge consistency was a regional thing. We both prefer a slighty, well, grainy fudge that almost melts in your mouth. The fudge we bought was kind of…. chewy, I guess? Disappointing.

I felt better after lunch, but not perfect, so Rachel took over the driving. The whole drive consisted of alternating breathtaking ocean views and nauseatingly twisty forest roads. Beautiful, but it wore on as the day passed. I was highly amused by “Confusion Hill” (which reminded me of Springfield’s Mystery Spot, so we pressed on).

We finally rejoined 101, and started to make better time. And then, as the scenery flattened out, and farmland spread as far as the eye could see… it appeared out of the valley: Ferndale. Ah, Ferndale. The apogee, the punchline, the full stop at the end of the day. Ferndale is a little one-street town in the middle of northern California that apparently decided it needed a theme, and that that theme would be “Victorian.” Our bed and breakfast, owned by a really nice (and very capable) gay couple, was indeed quite Victorian in appearance and decoration. The rest of the town, however… Well, the biggest hotel in town was called “The Victorian.” Other than that, it looked like any other American small town. It is, to be sure, very high on the quaint-o-meter. Apparently the Jim Carrey movie “The Majestic” was filmed here.

The innkeepers said that for dinner we had to go to the Ivanhoe, the “best restaurant in town.” (Number of restaurants in town: 3.) The Ivanhoe was an experience. It’s in the Ivanhoe hotel, which was apparently the town’s stagecoach stop back in the day. The restaurant itself was fine, it was exactly like the pretty good Italian restaurant in every small town. (My chicken piccata had a lovely bite to it, and the portions were very generous.) The bar, though… well, this wasn’t a bar. It was a saloon: a saloon complete with Western band (and yodelling singer) and drunk guy in a cowboy hat outside. I don’t know how to properly convey the experience that was the Ivanhoe. Everyone in the town seemed to be there, and they all knew each other. Ferndale’s residents regard their town completely without irony, which is kind of refreshing. Kudos, Ferndale.