Simple Sun-Soaked Endings

What can you envision your perfect Saturday? Your perfect day off? The un-interrupted day off; neither clouded by the Friday workday nor the inevitable Monday.

Today might have been that day.

For starters, there's waking up next to someone you miss, someone that has been 3,000 miles away. Waking up early, not because you have to but because your biological clock demands it. Waking up to a warm embrace, rays of early morning sun peeking over the Mayacamas and flooding the room via the roof windows.

Followed by none other than copious amounts of french pressed dark roast and accompanied with Buffalo red potato hash browns, a few fresh hen eggs-over easy, a lox lathered bay-gul and fresh sliced of avocado. Hey, this is California after all. A true-black and blue breakfast might include a Mimosa, but those should really be reserved for recovering from the Saturday night battering ram.

Fully refueled with starch and 87 unleaded we meandered across the Santa Rosa sprawl, crawling through red lights and ped walkways to the rolling hills of the Sonoma Coast. Amidst the Russian River wetlands and marsh we sat betwixt bi-lateral cordon vines and Lynmar's ultra-stylistic tasting room. Below the veranda we tasted a flight of Russian River and Estate Pinot Noir and Chardonnay, basking in the cool afternoon march sun and layered wines. The bolted mustard green on opposing hillsides reflected our demeanor: golden, golden golden.

Our next pit stop was Iron Horse Winery, a down home sparkling producer unashamed of downhome grit and rustic scenery. A weekend barrel tasting made for a congested scene at the tasting counter (slabs of barn wood on barrels) but added to a jovial atmosphere. Unfortunately the sparklers were letdowns, filled with wonder bread and dank newspaper. The Chardonnay flight was a bit more appealing with the un-oaked chard displaying a perfumed nose with un-adulterated acidity and the Corral Chard giving off pleasant citrus and a voluptuous body. Goes to show you can't hate a varietal all the time.

At Spears Market, outside Guerneville, we picked up a hot pastrami rueben. Like many quaint Mom and Pop country stores in California the Lipton Ice tea can be found next to a full line of Traditional Medicinals tea bags and the Bud Light fills the ice chest next to a cache of Lagunitas IPA. For every redneck in Northern California (mine included) there is a shitlocked hippie not too far away. If only the Pennysaver would follow suit...

Daylight hours were capped with a picnic by the Pacific, our table an under appreciated boulder washed up some millennia ago. Gobbling up the sammy with salt and pepper krinkle cut chips we starred at the jutting rock formations. You know the ones. The ones that stand tall and jagged above the ceaseless ambush of waves. The sea mountains ingrained in our formative brains in The Goonies.

"That one is the man on the moon."

"Possibly, but with a gnarled wino's nose and a butt chin."

"What about those?"

"Turds."

"Oh yeah?"

"That is a finicky French waiter; even has a pencil moustache."

"And a styled pompadour."

"I was thinking more like a bouffant."

"Actually, I think it looks like a chubby Bruce Campbell."

"No way! But maybe Fat Elvis"

The sun set, although, not perfectly. Nothing comes out perfect. There's always a catch, a glitch. A discordance. A thick cloud bank swallowed the ball of fire as it does time and time again. In the golden glare we bounded lackadaisically between slippery boulders covered with sea urchins, our feet heavy and uneasy. Floating, yet the reality of the situation seemed palpable to us both.

The ending to another perfect day it would seem, but not everything is cut and dry nor black and white. Therein lurks the thought that in glory of every sunset there is a shadow and within the shadow there is an unavoidable truth.

No matter how hard you try, not every day, nor week nor lifetime can be a Saturday.