TRAFFIC BITS

I work in an small office at street level that has windows that face the sidewalk and busy avenue. Every day, three or four times a day, fire trucks wail and ambulances rush down the street, past my window. The police give chase, sirens blaring, and it seems as though the world is coming to a catastrophic end. And this always seems to happen when I am on the phone, in a serious conversation or trying to get a point accross to someone who just isn't getting it.

And I wonder. Where in the heck is the fire? I am beginning to suspect that they are merely going for coffee at the new Starbucks up on Lighthouse. Or maybe the Tuesday five dollar a dozen special on donuts at Red's. There couldn't possibly be THAT much excitement and emergencies in Monterey could there? I feel like Lassie is trying to tell me that Timmie has fallen in the well again, each and every time they go past my office. What is it? Where did they go? And I never read about any sort of siren-worthy news in the paper. Where is the capsized boat? The heart-attack victim at the Aquarium? The overturned vehicle? The doggie trapped in the blazing fire? Where? Where? It's like someone said, "YOU KNOW WHAT?" In a really loud, excited, frantic voice. And when I say, "WHAT?" They just keep on going and don't tell me. It is the audible sucking in of air with the accompanying squeal of danger. The "OH NO!" The "HELP!!!" scream. And then silence. Crickets. Nothing. Well, I'm tired of all this noise. Either get a twitter account and tell me where the heck you are going in such a hurry, call the newspaper and give them a heads up, post something on your city's facebook page... or stop with the sirens. Just go already. It isn't like people won't get out of your way. Heck, they'll even save you a parking space in front of Starbucks. And probably give you free coffee. Just stop interrupting my day with your emergencies that you don't bother telling me about. I'll pull over if I see you in my rearview mirror. You don't have to scare the beejesus out of me to get me out of your way.

SARATOGA BURGERS

If you know my husband, you know that he is rather peculiar as to where and what he wants to eat.  "People just don't know how to cook," he says.  "They think salt and pepper are the only spices," he bemoans.  He is pretty sure that the chef is NOT cooking with love or even paying attention half the time.

So it is with great pleasure that we dine out at a restaurant that wows my husband.  Without breaking the bank.  We found ONE such place in Saratoga.  Village Burger Bar.  Now, some people may want something more fancy - but we like sitting at the "bar" and ordering our food.  It lends itself to a more relaxed atmosphere and you can talk to other people.  And my husband LOVES to talk to people.

We "built" our own burger, ordering it just so.  My husband is a medium rare sort of person and I am a medium well.  We made a bet that the cooks wouldn't get it right.  They never do.  The "cooks" in this kitchen were all women (ahem) and each of them had a different task.  The grill cook.  The condiments girl,  the buns lady, the produce goddess.  All working together, enjoying themselves.  I think that might have made the difference.  They were laughing and having a good time.

And our burgers were perfect.  Just the right temperature.  Not over salted or under spiced.  As close to perfection as a burger can get.  Exactly as ordered.  Imagine that.  A damn near perfect burger NOT cooked by my husband.

We enjoyed each bite.  Along with truffle fries that were divine.  Mmmmm.... makes me want to go back again next week.  And the week after that.  You can bet every time we go to San Jose now, we'll organize the trip to head over the mountains to Highway 17 and past Saratoga.  A detour stop for lunch at the Village Burger Bar.

Can't wait! Oh great, now I'm hungry. If you're hungry too.... visit their website at http://www.vbbsaratoga.com/.

MONTEREY SUMMER

I hail from Southern California. "Hell" my husband called it after living through one particularly hot summer. A place where 10 days of 100F plus degree weather was common. In November. Heat is nothing new for me. I remember Summers and Autumns in SoCal where it was so hot you could do science experiments on the sidewalk. A "dry heat" the natives said. The kind of heat that sucked the air out of your lungs when you stepped outside your front door. The kind of heat you stopped, squared your shoulders, and braced yourself for at the door, just before you left the comfort of an airconditioned building. So you can imagine my amusement when someone told me that we were having a heat wave in Monterey. It was going to get over 70 degrees they said. Seventy? Seventy in Los Angeles is the temperature where you think, "gee, I'd better grab a sweater just in case I get cold." Over 70F in Monterey - next to the water? How hot could that possibly be? I remember my first experience when the temperature rose up to 83F degrees here, along the coast. Oh good lord. Women were practically naked. Men were showing off their pasty white, albeit ripped chests. I've never seen so much reflection off of bare skin before! Not a scarf to be found, nary a sweater in sight. Men and women were stripped down to the basics of summer wear, lounging by the water, trying to "cool off" in the oppressive onslaught of a mercury overload on the local temperature gauge.

I've lived here six years now. It is mid-March and we've had several days where the little red dot on the thermometer has gone over the three-quarter mark and has crept upwards toward the 70F line. I find myself wearing layers and sandals to work. I leave the house in the cool of the morning, only to be stripped down to the lowest acceptable level of business wear by noon. I find myself wondering if it is okay to turn on the fan in my office when the temperature gets above 60F. Is it hot in here? And I find myself wandering outside as often as possible. The heat warms my aching bones that stiffened up over the winter nights. Monterey heat puts a spring in my step and makes me want to head down to the harbor to watch the sea otters frolic in the ocean. The orange blossoms are in full bloom in the courtyard of my work and the sun shines through my window. I watch as the blue jay outside of my window builds her nest and it makes me think we've completely skipped spring and have moved right into a Monterey summer. Have you seen my flip flops?

LOST IN THE WOODS

We were lost.  It wasn't hard to do.  A right hand turn instead of going straight.  Or maybe we went straight instead of turning left.  I'm not really sure.  But it was pretty evident that we were hopelessly lost.  The path we were on kept climbing up into the redwoods.  We saw a sign and it told us that the road would narrow for the next eight miles.  We eventually lost the yellow line that marks the middle of the highway and we were having to squeeze up against the side of the mountain to let cars going the other way pass.  Odd thing that.  We didn't see any cars ahead of us or behind us going the same way.  Just a semi-steady stream of day trippers headed down the mountain.

The gas gauge had dipped below the quarter-tank mark and the sun was beginning to dip as well.  The dense green forest we were in was cool and dark and damp.  It was truly beautiful, but the worry marker in my head was rising exponetially to the drop in temperature and daylight.  We knew which highway we were on, but we had no idea where it ended up, how long it would take to get to our mystery destination, or even if there was a filling station at the other end.  Our GPS didn't work because there was no signal in those hills.

My husband knew before I did that I was getting a bit aprehensive about this adventure.  He told me simply to follow my intuition.  My intution was screaming to turn around.  Head back to where you know there is a gas, food, and civilization.

So that's what we did.  Right there in the middle of the narrow road, we did a U-turn.  Don't you know right about then it was a traffic jam on that deserted road.  Four of five cars were impatiently urging me to hurry as I lumbered the truck across the road, back, forth, perfectly executing a twelve-point turn.  But I made it and we were headed back down the hill.

We found the road we had missed back a ways.  Discovered some quaint mining towns that had been in those hills for a hundred years.  We refueled and made it safely home.

As with many of life's adventures, this one had a spiritual message.  See, life is kind of like that excursion.  Am I on a road without a roadmap?  Am I running out of energy and have no idea where I am going? Am I climbing and climbing, enjoying the view, but aprehensive about where I am going to wind up?  Is it getting dark and those beautiful woods are starting to look scary?  Have I reached a point where I realize that I have not prepared myself for this journey?  Is it time to stop.  Trust my intuition.  Back out of the potentially dangerous situation.  Head back to safety and home?

We will go back to those woods.  But know this.  I now know where that road winds up.  And next time, I'll have a plan, a full day of sunlight and a full tank of gas, and sensible shoes and a jacket.  I want to explore those woods.  I want to stop and smell the forest.  And I want to be prepared for whatever adventure awaits.  And a map.  I want a map.