the traveler’s itch

There is something I like to call “the traveler’s itch” and it does not occur from sleeping in a Danish youth hostile.  The traveler’s itch occurs early on a Sunday morning, and strikes with such potency that the adventurer cannot ignore its cry.  All of the sudden, the mind is filled with moving landscapes, rolling mountains, gas stations run by floppy old men, and chocolate malts on a rest stop picnic table.

When the traveler’s itch strikes, it is impossible not to act. All other things become  mundane.  I attempted a CrossFit class and my mind drifted towards the realm of travel possibilities as attractive-trainer-guy fixed my form. (Yes, traveler’s itch is THAT strong. You completely ignore the moment when attractive-trainer-guy says, ‘Let me show you. Watch my butt. Look at it pop out. Are you looking at my butt?’)

For a second I debated San Francisco. Friends dust the city, and it was the Northern California Pirate Festival! You tell me that’s not tempting. But Sunday plans complicated such an ornate travel venture, and I needed to be a bit more realistic. I selected a day trip to Agua Dulce Winery in Santa Clarita, CA, about an hour and a half north of Los Angeles.

The drive took me through Canyon City. The name leads to truth. There were canyons, and tiny portions of white flowers bursting through the crevices. The cacti stood proud in the flat dirt, grinning thankfully at the SoCal sun.  How satisfying it was to finally see mountains rolling against a black highway- like being reunited with a solid chocolate bunny after a tortuous forty days of lent.

The vineyard itself is best described as a “wine ranch.” My knowledge of vineyards is somewhat limited; I’ve seen Virginia, and the occasional PA, but that’s about it. We’re blessed with greenery galore, but plagued with humidity and bugs. A new experience was the ranch, where wine enthusiasts could sip their Sierra Rojas in the dry, desert heat.

An odd place to grow grapes, but the breeds of fruit were all sun-loving little things, nurtured with the strange soil and epic Sol.

Especially divine was the 2009 Agua Dulce Winery Reserve Sangiovese, made from the red Italian grape.  Spicy, moody and thick with the scent of the earth, the Sangiovese could blend easily with a Cab or Syrah to create a wine acceptable of virtually any food pairing.

Such a wine may have further induced wanderlust, encouraging my impatient to browse flights to that boot-shaped country, but I was satisfied. Amazed, honestly, that such a place existed barely an hour north of the weird city of Los Angeles.   When wanderlust strikes, my friend, you don’t need a fountain of wealth or a private jet (though I would never complain if the two fell into my lap.) The Internet helps, as does the drive and determination to explore.

Oh, and there were llamas.

And a ram, but when he saw that the only edible I carried was a glass of vino tinto, he quickly moved on.

 

coastal coziness

I don’t know if anyone would describe the beach as “cozy.”  I might, especially when I think of East Coast beaches in colder weather, with their cotton sweatshirts plastered with ironed-on logos, denim jeans, and fleece blankets draped on wooden patio furniture.  When I moved to California, I imagined I was bidding farewell to that delicious ocean coziness, and trading it for adapting a bathing suit as second skin.  That was cool with me. Year round 70-degree weather meant year round shirtless volleyball players, and I was willing to take a break from cold beach coziness for some long term summer fun.  But surprise, surprise! A trip to Malibu illustrated I could have both. 

I’d been to Malibu a few times. For those of you who haven’t, don’t be mislead by the “Malibu Barbie” stereotype. Malibu is an escape from the crazy urban lifestyle of Los Angeles. It’s quiet, a long road surrounded by cliffy beaches and mountains.  There are houses, and there are likely celebrities, but they all stay tucked away in the diverse foliage, reading their books and drinking Caipirinhas.

On Memorial Day weekend, Malibu was cozy, but for an entirely different reason. The PCH was crowded, filled with travelers looking for some rural beach time. My father, not wanting to put Mish and I through traffic-hell, suggested we turn around and do Paradise Cove another day. We were not as easily swayed.  Though traffic in Los Angeles is pretty awful, traffic on the PCH can be a vacation. You just need to do it right. Bring a beer (if you’re like me and in the backseat), a magazine (I selected Lucky Peach), roll down the windows, and blast some classic rock. Traffic? What traffic? This, of course, being said by the girl with a beer and not being the wheel…:)

 Much to our delight, traffic eventually dissolve and we were left zooming down the highway, waving at the surfers and the palm trees, keeping our eye out for the campy and oh-so-wonderful, Paradise Cove.

Paradise Cove. I had never been there, but I heard it was expensive and awesome. It was. Paradise Cove wins because it’s assembled beautiful location, comfy chairs, booze, food, and beach all in one area. You pay for parking (and then quickly forget about it), buy some Bud Light Lime from the convenience store, and sit with your toes in the sand until the beach bums call you in for your table.   Mish and Dad opted for a bottle of champagne, while I sipped BL lime with my legs propped up on the chair beside me. No bottle opener? Ask the people next to you, fellow beach-lovers also drunk off bubbles and the sun. You are GOOD. 

We waited about an hour before our table was called, which is the perfect amount of time to finish a 16oz beer and a bottle of Dom Perignon.  We sat outdoors, and it was warm. I wore a pink dress and no bra (!!!), and Mish still donned her flower headband we had recently purchased on the shores of Venice Beach.   It wasn’t the fireplace and baked bread feel of Virginia winter coziness, but it was it’s own lair of comfort. The umbrellas blanketed us in shade, the booze massaged us into relaxation, and the crushing rhythm of the waves echoed against the sand.   With my mom and my dad, two of my favorite people in the entire world, I felt very safe.

 Okay. The food. We ordered steamed clams, served in a white wine and butter broth. Three ingredient simplicity, served with a basket of extra crispy fries. They weren’t crispy because they were thin, no, they were crispy because they were dipped in twice the amount of oil twice the amount of times necessary. This creates a perfect fry. Ketchup? Maybe. I prefer to dip those bad boys straight into the buttery, satin clam broth. White wine+fried goodness is heaven on earth, friends. Chalk another point up to the cozy factor.

Our entrée, which we all split, was a delicious pot of Paella. Mish has a soft spot for Paella, and cooks an outstanding dish back in our Virginia kitchen.  The broth, saffron, and rice waltz away together to create a creamy risotto.  On top of the golden rice bed sits green peas, a plethora of seafood, and andouille sausage. All have had a minute or two to play in their Paella sandbox, and therefore have had ample time to absorb the flavors and fill with juice.  Though not the same as a homemade VA Paella, this feast serves as the lover on a cozy evening. Warm, intoxicating, and you eat way more of it than you probably should.

 

So I’ve reached my point. Despite weather inching into the 80s, scratchy sand and salty air, Malibu is still a cozy place.  It’s strange that place making the world look so big (have you SEEN the Pacific?!) can make one feel so safe. True, I was spoiled with ample amounts of familial love and boozey goodness, but I will continue to appreciate the comfort the ocean can bring.  You might not be the Atlantic on a November eve, but you are Pacifically you, and I like that.