Last weekend was my first real trip to Big Sur, where redwood stagger down hills to cliffs that drop off into the ocean. It is a dreamland and you should include it in your life itinerary immediately.
We saw Father John Misty sitting on a stage from just a few feet away, playing to a small crowd under the trees and a full moon at the Henry Miller Library; we watched a waterfall drop off a cliff onto a beach and the waves (a waterfall I dreamed about last night!); we ate six meals at the Big Sur Bakery, the friendliest and most delicious little place you ever did see; we visited a newspaper mogul’s castle and gawked and his gold-laden swimming pools; we walked down purple-sand beaches; we had sundown drinks every night on the deck of Nepenthe, watching the hills turn pink and the ocean reflect the sky; we roasted a dozen marshmallows at once in a successful experiment at Henry-Ford-izing the s’mores process; we hiked along the coast in the rain and saw the ground steam and smelled the pine and sea; we sat in hot springs in the middle of the night on the cliffs’ edge and watched the silver waves hit the rocks below.
I said dreamland, I wasn’t lying.
