"Ooh, I Want to Be There-er-er-ere in my City, whoa, oh, oh, oh..."

The vistas on our way out of O-town were amazing. We were in farm country full of olive groves and fruit orchards. It could have been the Oregon countryside of my youth, save for the fact of the occasional palm tree or the long fingers of incredibly tall cypress tress, rendering a view like something out of a Van Gogh painting. A great many of the farms had set up roadside stands.

After passing the 412th one I was all, "Hey, maybe we should stop and get some cherries or something". Hat was all, "Duh!"

Turns out the next stop was a full-blown, full service concern, with all manner of fruits and veggies, each more glorious than the last.

A man was handing out samples and I consumed the equivalent of a fruit salad. I bought nearly $30 worth of aromatic fruit, crunchy veggie chips and a jar of star thistle honey. As we continued on our way we discussed the cornucopia in our trunk and decided that with the addition of some cheese and bread we'd be set for dinner. That settled, the focus was on getting to Alameda. My dear friend, Dana, had offered the use of his place since he was off at a summer camp for hemophiliacs (he's a social worker). He had provided us with most excellent directions. Excellent as in here's-the-lane-you-want-to-be-in-this-is-what-you'll-see-on-you-left. The only concern pour moi was that there was a bit near Sacramento that involved lots of merging on and off half a dozen California highways. This did not please me, for I am not a fan of the merging, especially when I have no frakking idea where I am.

Once again, as they had the entire trip, my car angels saw to it that there was plenty of room between me and the nearest oncoming car. That and the fact that my car bore Washington plates probably had a lot to do with the exceedingly wide berth I was being given. Those Californians couldn't give me enough room. We'd be cruising down the center lane, surrounded by an empty cushion of at least 50 yards on all sides. Sweet.

Once we we were on the highway that was going to take us into Alameda, we pulled off at a beautiful rest stop that overlooked the valley. On a clear day you can, reportedly, see the Golden Gate Bridge from this spot. There was too much haze for that but there was something about that view, a beckoning promise. Somewhere in my head there were faint strains of a Journey song. I shook it off and we climbed back in the car for the last leg.

Thanks to Dana's directions and Hat's most excellent navigational skills, we were soon in the very charming town of Alameda, a place full of canopied, tree lined streets and teeny tiny Victorian homes. (We learned later that Alameda was a true bedroom community where the workers and staff for the rich of San Francisco came home each night. Each of the little teeny Victorians is a replica of a larger house in SF, a working class homage, if you will).

At the local market we collected wine, bread, cheese and salami, then easily found Dana's cozy, comfortable apartment. We were delighted to discover that we would each have our own beds for the duration. (I still dispute the sheet-stealer charge but there you go). We were further thrilled to discover Dana's secret garden, which would be the site for evening cocktails and morning coffee for the next 4 days. It was lovely and relaxing. We settled in, then Hat arranged the fruit and protein on a platter, while I toasted some bread and poured the star thistle honey over chunks of feta cheese. One word: ambrosia. We uncorked some Plungerhead zinfandel (a 2006, from Lodi - delish), cued up "Local Hero" and tucked in. We all fell asleep before the movie ended.

I didn't forget. Here's something a little different; and no, it's not Journey.