HIGH ON HYDROGEN

Honda's hydrogen car not only looks good, but can be driven 350 miles between fuelings. Good thing, considering how few hydrogen service stations on the road.

NY Times on April 24 had an exciting feature, "On the Road, Hope for a Zero-Pollution Car," on the status of hydrogen cars, including a slideshow of six demo hydrogen vehicles. Of course, if you're not Arnold Schwarzenegger, you probably still can't get one, but there are prototypes already in daily service in the Washington DC area. The Ford E-450 bus serving as an airport shuttle. There's a Toyota Prius that drives almost exactly like the hybrid gas/electric model, a BMW hydrogen/gas hybrid, a little 85hp Daimler Chrysler runabout...

The most conventional-looking model and potentially the best seller, is the Honda FCX. Sleek, sporty, speedy-looking, the FCX should please the most finicky image-conscious driver. It has a range of 350 miles between fuelings, a 127-horsepower A.C. motor powered by a 100-kilowatt fuelcell. Not to be rushed, Honda will build a few in 2008 for demonstration fleets.

To grab the public's attention, a recent showing of the latest hydrogen models was held at the site in Lakehurst, NJ, where the Hindenberg crashed 70 years ago, squashing the popularity of hydrogen fuel. Now it's the favorite alternative of Prez Bush, so the big bucks, $1.2 billion, have gone into an initiative to accelerate its development in the auto industry. The only snag is that he also stressed the best way to develop hydrogen fuel cells is with nuclear energy. Why does that not surprise me?

LAUNCHING THE (P)INCLINATION

Sailboats being trucked majestically down the street to the marina are a common sight in San Carlos. But it's different when it's YOUR boat.


Our friend G was on tenterhooks (whatever they are) the past couple of days, eager to splash his boat after many months in drydock. He's done some work on it, though not as much as he'd like, since it's a case of the shoemaker's children: he's a ship's carpenter and so in demand at the workyard he's seldom had time for his own vessel.

On the ramp, ready to be lowered ever so gently into the water

But he did manage to get the hull painted, as noted in a previous blog, a very pale pink. The topsides, he says, he can do after she's in the water. What color? "Pink, of course." Accents such as portholes and toe rail will be ice blue. In fact, all the teak is going to be painted ice blue, he swears. "No more brightwork!"

So this morning at promptly 9am, "Inclination" was launched at the marina. Several of G's friends turned out to help, and we came to officially record the event.

Launched, with nary a gouge or scratch! A moment to celebrate.

This is a Big Deal for G because he's spent months living on dirt and is much happier on a boat in the water. A major lifestyle change...makes me a little envious.

G's Corgi Vela (Spanish for sails, which is what her ears at full alert resemble, strains at the leash as "her" boat settles into the water.

Friends stood on both sides of the launching ramp to help push the boat off and turn her around, to head off for her mooring.

ACHIEVING A BALANCE

The comment below arrived today from MJ on "Solmate" in response to my blog posted yesterday, I tried to respond by email but Earthlink wouldn't let me through.

...and for those worried about the Darwin-deal: those cats weren't born and raised in the wild. Some irresponsible owner dumped them. Cats aren't wild animals. It's they who are messing with the evolutionary process by killing birds, lizards, snakes, etc. etc. And because living is easy (comparitively) in the big city where human refuse is available, the ferals start reproducing like crazy. Then what happens to the normal fauna?
Screwed.

And not to worry about dwindling kitty resources. Here in Manzanillo, we held a week-long spay/neuter clinic and managed to snag about 220 patients. Will that make a dent? Barely. The estimate of callejeros (street animals) in Manzanillo is a staggering 16,000.

If there's still any doubt in anyone's mind that San Carlos also has a serious, serious problem, please take them up the Caracol to the Santuario, where quite a few of the community's cast-offs find shelter.

I've seen dozens of cats make their way down the hillside at the Caracol for their morning feeding, supplied by the Caracol Cat Lady, who hired a man to bike over at 6:30 every morning with a gallon of water and a bag of kibble for them. I've been told most of them have made that trip to the vet.

CRITICAL MASS

Mamacita (foreground) and Fifi/Felipe were quiet on their first car ride, but they kept their gourmet breakfast down

The cat caper went off without a hitch, in spite of my worries, and they're home again, probably feeling a little grumpy as the anesthesia wears off. Surprise of the day: Fifi is a boy, and we've had to change his name to Felipe. He was back at the food bowl this evening, but we've seen neither hide nor hair of Mamacita or her kittens since they got back. The Capt placed her pet carrier in front of her hideaway where they were no doubt waiting anxiously, and she went straight to them.

Right after they got home we had company coming for dinner and I fixed the Capt's favorite: coconut shrimp. I've decided it's a dish far too labor-intensive to make more than, say, once a year. Maybe for his birthday, if he's been good. It's much more demanding than a Thanksgiving turkey or a pie from scratch. All those slimy veins you have to remove.

But we had a pleasant evening with Maria and her crew Jack, learned a lot about what it's like living in Japan and swapped boat lore. Jack was of the opinion that our Darwinian dealings with the cats was "cruel" and part of me agrees, sadly. Whenever anything: human, animal, plant, maybe even rocks, is in short supply it gains in value. I remember the book which was made into a movie, "The Children of Men" by P.D. James in which an unmarried young black girl has a baby in a world where everyone else has been sterile for decades. Both baby and mother were rare and precious, so different from the way they'd be regarded today in an overpopulated, racially conflicted England.

If we were hugely successful with the cat neutering program, would kittens someday become precious instead of being like weeds in a vacant lot, something to get rid of? I love cats, but I know there's such a thing as too many of them, and we're getting close to critical mass here in San Carlos, now. You could say the same of people, but thankfully I'm not in charge of solving that problem.

DARWINIAN DABBLING

When I judged it was time to put the cages out, I looked into the backyard and caramba! No cats! Hoping they were nearby, hunting to stave off their hunger, I called them and heard a great rustling in the weeds.

While they watched, I put the cages on a benchlike contraption the Capt had erected next to the fence out of 2x4s, slipped bowls of chopped sardines and scallops into them taking care not to set off the triggers that would slam shut on my hand. Would they come to my side of the fence? I retreated to the kitchen to watch. Mamacita was first, inching her way into the trap. I ran to grab my camera and before I could get back to the kitchen window I heard a "snap!" and saw her astonished face as the gate closed behind her. Fifi flew off the bench and vanished, but was back, just outside Mama's trap, within moments. She paced a bit, looking worried, then noticed the other trap and the enticing smells within. Mama looked OK, though she was pawing the sides of the trap looking for an exit. Would Fifi go into the other trap?

Snap! Not only did she enter, but she wasn't even cautious about it. Fifi's definitely got the biggest appetite in the family; she almost immediately began gorging on breakfast.

The Capt and I loaded the traps into the back seat of the Nissan, and headed off for Guaymas. We found the vet's office with no trouble, but it wasn't open yet. Twenty minutes later the vet's assistant, Carlos "Call Me Charlie," unlocked the door and invited us in. I presented my voucher for free neutering, gave Charlie my phone number and name, and walked out, trying not to look at the cats.

We're dabbling with Darwinian principles here, the Capt said as we drove away. If SPBA is successful in neutering the majority of cats in town, that generation will eventually die off without descendants and all that will be left will be the wariest and most suspicious cats who were never captured. Maybe those who avoided tempting bowls of kibble left out for them. Maybe the most invisible. Certainly the cat population will change radically in character.

Now I have to ask myself if this is a good thing.

PRACTICING PLANNED PARENTHOOD

With some trepidation and a lot of support from someone who’s done it 45 times, I’m going to Do The Right Thing: trap two feral cats and take them to the vet where they’ll get shots and neutering. Karyn, my mentor in this project, is the charity chair of the SBPA, a sort of Planned Parenthood for feral animals. They have an arrangement with a vet in Guaymas, who’ll spay/neuter and give shots to any ferals (in Spanish, callejeros) brought in with a SBPA voucher. SBPA Services, Inc. is a US non-profit.

A couple of juicy tidbits connected with Karyn: her last name is Furry. Oh, yes, I couldn’t make up anything that delicious. And her stoic husband is allergic to cats, yet he tolerates the presence (outdoors) of some 45 felines. What a mensch!
The traps -- hideous, ugly things, aren't they? I wouldn't go in if there was a plate of coconut shrimp waiting for me

Last night Karyn provided me with two traps, shown me how to set them and gave me some surefire bait, a can of Feline's Choice sardine catfood, which I intend to garnish with some chunks of scallops Maria gave me. Probably the best meal of their lives. I already tried out the scallops on them last night and they fell upon them like kiddies at an icecream party. Rubbery as they may be, they’re a winner with the cats.

The trepidation is about Mamacita, who’s still nursing her babies. If all goes well, she’ll waltz into the trap, which I’m going to position high enough no little one can try to follow her in and get slammed by the gate. When she’s released by the vet, I’ll rush her back to her kittens, who’ll be ravenous but still okay. I try to ignore the “what ifs” that crowd into my brain. The feeling I’m betraying their trust. And the consequences of messing with Mother Nature. But then, I started messing with Mother N when I began feeding them last August.

The crucial element is timing: if both cats don’t go for the bait at once, if one holds back and sees the other get caught, then she’s likely to scamper off. I know that’s what I’d do. We have delayed breakfast so that they don’t have to be in the traps any longer than necessary, since the vet’s office won’t be open before nine. But what if the vet is taking a holiday today? No way the cats will fall for this game twice.

I remind myself that most of the things I fret about turn out fine.

Meanwhile Fifi and Mamacita are at their usual spot on the bench, watching our every move and wondering why breakfast is so late. Mama’s accusing eyes are saying, “Don’t you realize I have mouths to feed too?”

Fifi is my main target. She’s fertile, (oh, so very) nubile and fair game for the local roving toms. I’m sure her kittens would be adorable, but Karyn has convinced me she’ll have a better life if she’s not getting knocked up twice a year. I’d like to catch her sibling Zorra, too, but that may require the cooperation of our neighbor Dave, who started setting out canned food lately and lured Zorra away from our family breakfasts. We thought something had happened to her until we saw her on Dave’s porch, gorging on the canned stuff, peering guiltily over her shoulder at us as we passed by. “Sorry,” she said, “but the kibble just doesn’t do it for me anymore.”

Anyway, I only have two traps, so I can only catch two cats this time. I can try again later for Zorra. I was also given two carriers to bring them back from the vet.

Tune in for developments...

BOAT-PAINTING, MEXICAN STYLE

G's boat doesn't look so pink until you compare it with the white one next door.

Back to the workyard this morning to see our painter friend Carlos in action, transforming a sailboat into a vision in pink. Today the second coat was to be applied, which should be sufficient, he says.
Mexican-style scaffolding, not for sissies

First, the boat "next door" had to be completely draped so not a trace of pink would appear on it. The neighbor lady was very anxious about that, and had to be assured repeatedly that if a smidgeon of pink went astray, it would be promptly removed.

I arrived in time to watch the...um...scaffolding being erected on the port side. It's made up of 55-gallon drums, 6x6 chunks of wood and 2x6 planks, supported at one end by a shaky ladder. Carlos, in his paper suit and mask, climbed nimbly onto this dubious contraption and began painting, while his assistant Hector offered advice from a safe distance. And voila! The only pink boat in San Carlos and Guaymas! Another boat owner bicycled by and said "Uh, oh! Now my wife will want pink."
Carlos in the proper painter's attire, with mask and paper suit, starts spraying at the stern

PODCASTS, PALETAS AND A PINK BOAT

Little triumphs and treats today. I managed to get several complete podcasts off my favorite radio show, "This American Life," after months of incomplete recordings. I'd be listening to a riveting segment, and it'd cut off at the juiciest part! TAL is a collection of usually four stories on a single theme, everything from tales about dropout parents to soldiers in Iraq to life's scariest moment. They can be downloaded for 95 cents from the website or if you get PBS they air at noon and 10:30 pm Saturdays. It's been such a hit they've gone on to a series on Showtime. I peeked at the trailers and wanted more, but Showtime, even its website, isn't available outside the US. Oh, well, maybe we'll get reruns someday.

Before 1917, people used this animal-powered tramway to get around in Guaymas. Note lack of traffic, dog trotting safely down the street.

Later I drove my car into deepest downtown Guaymas for the first time, following the Capt so he could drop off his pickup for air conditioning work. The traffic was as I expected, with people cutting in front of me and trying to make three lanes out of two. No cops around, they're all out on the highways pulling people over. While the mechanic, very highly recommended, examined our compressor, we lounged at an open-air ice cream shop devouring coconut paletas...like popsicles but decidedly yummier...and watched the world bustle by.

On the way home we stopped off at the Marina Seca workyard to see our friend G's boat, which has just been painted PINK! He'd been talking about it for weeks, and I thought he'd be sorry, but I've completely changed my mind. At first I walked by it without even noticing, it's that subtle. A faint blush of a pink, like creamy clouds faintly tinted by the early morning sunrise, to wax poetic about it. (Hmmmm, now I'm picturing a hint of teal for our boat. White is so...overdone!) Instead of the expensive LPU paint often used on boat hulls, G. used Easypoxy, much more affordable and (depending on the quality of the sanding job underneath) very glossy and smooth. Our friend from the Ranchitos did the spray job, standing on a jerry-rigged scaffolding that made me queasy to look at it. Tomorrow he's applying the second coat and I plan to be there with camera.

Close by G's boat is the ferrocement "Arigato Jack" owned by my intrepid fellow blogger Maria. It's far less of a project boat than the 43 Morgan we have stored in Ft Lauderdale, in fact it seems to need only some bottom work (ferrocement gets blisters just as fiberglass does), some paint and rigging work, and she could be ready for splashdown. Her captain knows a lot more about what she's doing than even she realizes, and the mentors in the workyard are as savvy as any she'll find in Mexico.

There'll always be the odd fixit job to tackle, just as there is on our boat. But I'm looking forward to the day we might buddy boat across to Chencho or up to San Pedro for a shakedown cruise.

NOW THERE ARE FIVE (SIX? SEVEN?)

Mamacita has commandeered the Capt's workshop out back for a nursery for her new litter
While we were off on our travels, Mamacita, the matriarch of our feral feline family, did it again. Our housesitter informed us the litter started out with three, but now it's down to two by some elimination process I don't want to know about.

So that makes five in the immediate family, plus a big granny cat and an all-black fellow that just recently showed up.

Now we'll have to come up with names for the newbies.

"Get 'em fixed," advises our housesitter. The local vet will do the job if we just capture them using special traps, and afterward we could have them back. Anytime now Fifi and Zorra will be hatching little ones too, and irresistible as I know they would be, I know the right thing is to prevent them. If only I could just add birth control to their kibble...

But I'm not the only ol' softie in the house. Mamacita's turned the Capt's workshop into a nursery, so the Capt is doing carpentry on the kitchen table today. And we're both tiptoeing around in the yard trying not to scare the babies. While we were still out of town, an impulsive friend of ours who was helping feed the ferals kidnapped the little tabby and took her to an AA meeting. She's probably permanently traumatized.

ADIOS, CALIFORNIA

Flame tree in bloom on AZ Hwy 10

Two days ago we arrived home, the Capt in his "new" pickup and me in my beloved Nissan. He arrived a little earlier than me, having made a fruitless stop at Pollo Feliz for dinner (closed!) while I stopped at Ed & Dorothy's to retrieve Sophie. The casa was dirty, with dust layered on all the floors and the Capt was already sweeping it up when I arrived. The feral feline family was wailing for us at the back door as though they'd been starving (though we know a friend fed them now and then).

We started out with all good intentions of bringing back most of the stuff we'd stored in California--furniture, dishes, cookware, etc. But even after my son sold his Dodge Dakote pickup to the Capt (already equipped for towing!) we didn't have room for everything we wanted. And that's when Pablo showed up and took most of it off our hands.

That's right, we gave at least half of our belongings to a Mexican gent from Zacatecas who originally strolled over from his house across the street to offer a hand when he saw us lugging our goods out. As one day of lugging became two and three days, as we realized we'd need a moving van to get it all to Mexico (with the attendant duties to pay and paperwork and delay) we started bestowing the odd piece of furniture, box of dishes, lamp to good ol' Pablo. He carried away recycling and trash, took a few items to an antique store for consignment, helped us with the heavy lifting, even swept out the storeroom when we had it empty. His four kids helped, while his wife stood and watched shyly from across the street, finally waving goodbye to us when we drove away.

The '71 VW van and aforementioned Dodge behaved far better than we'd expected, even with the VW's cranky clutch and the Dodge's strange steering. The little trailer we bought as a kit, which the Capt assembled in the park, stayed stuck to the Dakota and didn't come loose and roll off the road as I imagined it might. We caravanned to Buttonwillow the first day, slept in the VW at a rest stop, and got all the way to Tonopah, AZ the next night for another snooze. Having broken down twice in my life just outside Tonopah I was feeling superstitious and wanted to get it behind me, but we were both starting to hallucinate from exhaustion.

The drive back to Mexico seemed like a time warp, carrying me back to the the early 70s in rumbling buses just like this one, singing along to Steve Miller ("I want to fly like an eagle, to the Sea...Fly like an eagle, let my spirit carry me"). That's right, I was singing, first time since this whole lung thing started. Felt great.

It seemed everything that could bloom was at it when we were passing through. One of my favorites, the flame tree, was flaming in its fullness everywhere I looked. It's such an awkward looking thing, spiny branches going off in all directions, until those bright red blooms pop out like fire, one on the end of each branch, in April. The most vigorously flaming trees I saw were along Highway 95, where the only passersby were truckers who probably have little appreciation.

At Amado, where we keep our disabled but comfy RV, we offloaded some items and I traded the VW for my Nissan which drives like a dream in comparison. Later we'll go back up and get the VW, which is due for major renovation.

So happy to be home, so happy to be living in Mexico.

BIOHUMMERS?

After venting yesterday on hybrids I caught a Q&A session with The Governator (Arnie Schwarzenegger for you non-Californians) that was very relevant. Arnie is apparently jumping on the Green Wagon as part of a drive to put CA at the forefront of the movement. How serious he is, is yet to be seen. But he has converted both his Hummers to alternative fuel, one to hydrogen and the other to biodiesel.

Hummers in California are the object of ridicule and resentment. One anti-Hummer website claims owners are getting about 10 mpg, a fact the government doesn't require Humvee to publish. The site also calls Hummers "death machines," which leads me to wonder if death machines will proliferate on California highways, all running on biodiesel or hydrogen, once Arnie's movement gains momentum.



Arnie's calling for hydrogen fueling stations throughout the state. He likens the green movement to the emergence of Disco, which boomed after "Saturday Night Fever" came out. Let's just hope it doesn't get forgotten as Disco did.

PRIUS ENVY

Gualala, where we are staying while we load our personal belongings and empty our storeroom, is a small remote town up a long and winding road along the coast. Like all the best scenic getaways, it takes a lot of driving to get here.

That may help explain why there are more hybrids here, in particular Toyota Prius, per capita than anyplace I've been. When I lived here 16 months ago, I had five friends who drove Priuses (Prii?) They were betting that with the amount of driving required around here, they'd save the difference in car purchase cost. It appears more and more residents are making that bet. But it goes beyond gas economy. Driving a Prius makes a statement: "I am willing to use less of the world's resources." Just as driving a Ford Expedition makes a statement: "I got mine, and I don't give a damn. Just get out of my way."

When we visited Ft. Lauderdale last year we rented a Prius (yes, it costs more to rent one, too) and after four days of driving around, exploring and getting lost, we only had to buy six gallons of gas before turning in the car. And it was fun to drive!

Today I was watching the usual arguments about gas gouging on CNBC, the business channel. The problem isn't so much supply (there's a glut in Oklahoma, for instance) as refining capacity. Gas here in CA is currently around $3.40 a gallon, at least fifty cents more than other states (it's around $2.95 in AZ). And it's only going to get worse. There's an anti-gouging bill in the works, but the general "wisdom" says it would only reduce supply. They have all us drivers by the short hairs, and the only ones celebrating are the ones who own energy stocks.

And yet, CNBC also reports a new trend among families: they're buying third vehicles. Not old beaters for their teenagers to drive, but big SUVs. Never mind global warming, gas prices, gridlock...

I confess, I have no room to complain. At present we own four vehicles between the two of us, though we never meant for it to happen. One, the VW Westfalia, will be sold as soon as we can get it running. My beloved Nissan Maxima, best car I ever drove, may be next, if anybody will buy a car with 250,000 miles on it.

Toyota has increased production of Prius this year and hopefully there'll be even more of them gracing US streets. Or maybe they'll continue to be a California phenomenon. I swore my next car would be a Prius, but my hopes grow dim, simply because we now live in Mexico and there aren't many mechanics there who have ever even seen a hybrid. I have only seen one Prius on a city street in the time we've lived there.

But I'm not giving up. Maybe we'll buy a used Prius in Arizona. Or maybe by then there'll be an even more fuel-efficient option, like a plug-in hybrid. One day maybe a Mexican Prius specialist in the States will get homesick for Guaymas and move back home.

According to the prius.com website, the word "Prius" is Latin for "before." As in, reducing our dependence on gas BEFORE it's too late.

IRISES AND GOLDENDOODLES

It's a chilly Easter on the Northern California coast, as we expected. When we arrived in Gualala and opened the storage room where most of my clothes have been packed away for 16 months, I was eager to dig into the containers and pull out shoes, longsleeve shirts and a warm fleece jacket.

My favorite wildflower, the Douglas Iris, dots the landscape throughout the Mendocino Coast at this time of year

Having driven up to Fort Bragg to legalize the 1971 VW bus we're driving back to Mexico, we started culling out things we decided we could live without, loading them into the van. Then, early Friday morning, we took the first batch to Pay 'N Take, the fabulous rummage sale in Gualala. We had to make our donation stealthily, as intake is supposed to be done on Tuesdays, and here we were dropping off a vanload of stuff the day before the sale, creating great hardship for the folks who prepare for each month's event. Some of the boxes were marked with my name, which didn't help my reputation. But it was good stuff, and I hope they didn't mind dealing with it too much.

Then we headed east "over the hill" again to buy a trailer and the parts we needed to put a trailer hitch on the van. We landed at my son's house in Petaluma that night, just in time for a tri-tip barbecue and some quality cat-time with Munchkin and Scrappy, the resident black cats.

Parked in my son's driveway for years was a 1988 blue Dodge Dakota which had been nonfunctional for years. We had many phone conversations about that truck, how he could dispose of it, how much money he'Tomorrow we assemble the trailer (it's in boxes in back of the van), get one-trip permits for the truck and trailer at the DMV, andd sunk into it, how frustrated he was about it. Well, the problem is solved: he gave it to us. The Capt. has spent the last two days getting it running and just about ready to drive away. Since it already has a trailer hitch on it, the van won't need one now. Tomorrow we head back to the coast to load up our stuff.

While the Capt. slaved away on the Dakota, my son, his girlfriend and I went to an Easter party Saturday, visiting a friend from 30 years ago when our sons were playmates. We sat out in the backyard sipping wine, dining on ham, potato salad and mango cheesecake, watching kids of all ages ride horses and minibikes around the fields. The little ones all took tumbles on the bikes but the adults were the only ones injured: one woman broke her wrist when she smashed into a horse trailer. Oops!

Sunday's highlight was a walk in the bird sanctuary along the Petaluma River, where we saw redwing blackbirds, ducks, egrets and a white swan sunning in a pond. We passed people walking every sort of dog down the path, including one of the trendy new hybrids, a Goldendoodle...Golden Retriever and Poodle. What a cutie!

DESERT TO SNOW TO SEA IN ONE DAY

I know it’s time to have some kind of adventure when I’m blogging about feral cats and waffles. The mind has stagnated, the little grey cells have gone to sleep.

Sunday we drove through the desert to Tucson and boarded Southwest to California on a bittersweet journey to tie up loose ends and close a chapter in our lives, to mix a couple of metaphors.

For once, I had my camera within reach on the plane, and I did something that’s been on my list of 100 Things to Do in My Lifetime: take aerial photos of the Sierras. The mountains had a fair amount of snow on them, great sweeps of untracked white, and gazing down on them took my breath away.

We landed at Oakland Airport and for once our timing was perfect: we had just enough time to check our email, get acquainted with another Mac user doing likewise, locate the shuttle stop and catch our shuttle. In Petaluma, a car rental guy was waiting for us at the other end to take us to the agency, where the rental agent informed us that, alas, the cheapo compacts were all rented out, we’d just have to settle for a brand new white Jeep Liberty for the same price. Oh, darn. Pretending to choke down our disappointment (hah!) we clambered in and zipped over to Starbuck’s to fortify ourselves for the 1-1/2 hour corkscrew drive that leads to Gualala.


One little detour: we stopped at McNear’s, the Irish bar in downtown Petaluma where the Capt. and I met on St. Paddy’s Day, 1989. Introduced by a friend who conveniently vanished, we ended up sharing the last plate of corned beef & cabbage the kitchen had to offer. Three years later, we married on St. Paddy's. Ever since, we have to have CB&C on our anniversary. In a fit of nostalgia, I got a photo of the old ironfront building where McNear’s still draws a young and rowdy crowd.

We lived five years in this little out-of-the-way village on Hwy. One in Mendocino County, in a flat over the lobby of a 16-unit inn called the Seacliff. I was night manager and Jim, when not in Mexico, was our in-house repairman and the guy who handled loud, drunken guests in the wee hours, a rare occurrence. Since we left over a year ago,I had continued to update Seacliff’s website (www.seacliffmotel.com) as a freebie, so when we needed a place to stay while we pack up a storeroom’s worth of stuff, we were invited to be guests there this time. A fireplace, private deck, whirlpool tub, chocolates by the bed...we are being royally spoiled.

The place has been spiffed up a lot since we left, so I promised to do a photo shoot for the website while we’re here. And I’ll share a few shots here, of course.

It’s a gorgeous green time of year on the California coast, with wildflowers all along the roadside, including my favorite, the Douglas iris. The daffodils have run their course.

The best news so far: the 1971 VW bus we left in storage started with just a little help from a jump starter. We’re now looking into getting a small trailer we could tow, so we can make some compromises between 1) hiring a big van for $1K+ and carvanning across CA and AZ, a prospect neither of us liked, or 2) getting rid of everything and flying back.

Today we drive to Fort Bragg, 1-1/2 hours up the coast, where the nearest DMV office is, to update the VW’s registration. More corkscrew driving, but some of the most beautiful scenery on the West Coast.