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  • oh the rogue, the red, red, rogue...

    Stinson Beach - what a reward after the windy, treacherous road, after the standstill traffic where 3 miles take nearly 30 minutes on a clear, hot, sun-filled day. What a reward for this New Yorker who imagines that this kind of traffic means the sand will be overrun with humans, that it will be unbearable to walk long enough to find a spot that isn't hemmed in on every side by fellow beach-goers. What a gift to find that "crowded" on a Marin County beach means darn-near empty compared to the urban summer day getaways at home.

    Gorgeous water, breathtaking vista. When I look out over the waves I realize that, like at home, there is nothing until the next continent. Only this time, I look to Asia. A transporting jolt, to know that now I look West. The touch of sunshine on skin and this newness of view makes for an afternoon of pure pleasure.

    We head back up the steep and bending path of 101, East Bay bound at the end of heat and wine and fruit and waves, buzzed off the romance and sun. But as we weave through the turnouts and hills and lookout points, Mr. Truck is nearly up against our bumper. Trailing us by only a foot or two, though we're trying to keep a safe and respectful distance from the sedan ahead. And then? A motherf%^$ing horn blaring across the bucolic view and before we can register the offense, Mr. Truck veers into the left lane, daring oncoming traffic, to pass us and the driver in front. And his haste doesn't prevent him from reaching out his window to give us all the finger.

    Welcome to California.
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