america

Planning a vacation in a foreign land can really be a pain, what with finding lost passports, figuring out currency exchange rates, and overcoming language problems (ours). Frankly, it sometimes makes sense to not even bother. That's how we ended up spending a week in the not-so-exotic—but still technically foreign—Commonwealth of Puerto Rico.

Do you like garlic? I mean, really like garlic? I mean, like it so much you don't mind people gagging at your mere scent? Would you bathe in the stuff if you could? Then you've got to go to Gilroy, California. It is in the middle of nowhere (southeast of San Jose) and home of America's premier and darn near ONLY garlic resources. And guess what? They have a festival. Yeah! A garlic festial! And we went! (Don't ask why. We were bored.)

The first thing we noticed as we pulled into Ontario Airport (outside Los Angeles, and calling it an "airport" is being generous) was the temperature. Sixty-seven degrees F. Nearly the identical temperature we had left back in SF. A bad start since we had chosen Palm Springs for it's warm, desert climate.

After easily twenty years of looking, I finally saw the house of my dreams. It's a huge mansion in Beverly Hills, California. It's actually a copy of one in London. The mansion was the brainchild of a rich tycoon from the 20's who liked the design so much he built one just like it here in California where he lived until he stopped living. The second owner bought it in the '60s and installed all the modern conveniences of life like central air. But the most outstanding feature he added was The Bunnies.

Commemorating our mutual reticence to belly-flop back into the dating pool, my wife and I spent our 6th anniversary at a B&B for a few days of R&R.

Located in the sun-bleached Collayomi Valley north of Calistoga, the Backyard Garden Oasis promised three newly constructed cottages with king-sized beds, skylights, a hot tub and an organic country breakfast among other perks (like having a vacancy for Labor Day weekend). But what really cinched the deal for me was their inability to accommodate either children OR pets, as nothing kills a relaxing hot-tub buzz quite like squealing crumb-grabbers or a yapping terrier.

Okay, let’s dispense with the whole "cruise" issue right up front. A lot of snobby, pretentious jerks think cruises are tacky, low-brow experiences exclusively for people who’ve never before seen saltwater up-close. And being snobby, pretentious jerks ourselves, we tend to agree. Clearly it was borne out by most of our fellow passengers.

So what’s our excuse? Well, besides being snobby, Amy & I are also pragmatic jerks, and a cruise offers unique benefits not found on most vacations, “going to Alaska” for one. This is no small benefit in itself, since Amy and I would probably never drive there, otherwise.

About three hours north of SF on Route 101, West of the Sierra-Nevada mountain range, you come upon a quaint seaside town reminiscent of New England fishing villages. It's called Mendocino. Originally a bustling logging town, this tiny village is now home to artists, galleries and dilapidated, rundown wooden shacks. For every exquisite, painfully restored New England-style cutesy Bread-n-Breakfast, there's two condemned, termite-infested, lead paint peeling eyesores.