It’s a doggie dog world out there. *

Day One

I have this ongoing fantasy in my head that K and I should move to the country/the wilderness/ some quaint little rural village. I picture us communing with nature all the time, playing Frisbee with Belly, drinking lemonade and 40s on the porch, and getting to know our neighbors, who would be an excellent blend of cool creative types our own age and eccentric yet lovable senior citizens. We could do this in Vermont, or Colorado, or Oregon. (More likely, Chimayo or Woodstock). Even my mother agrees. She likes to say, on a semi-regular basis “You and K could start an organic farm!” I’m not sure where she gets this—maybe because K was a landscaper off and on for four years. He didn’t enjoy it all that much and it hurts his knees, but still. I think my mom thinks we’d give her heirloom tomatoes and sweet corn for free.

I know I’ve idealized this whole country life idea in my head, and that it’s about as realistic as me moving to New Zealand and starting a wildly successful boutique winery. Or, as fantastically anti-climactic as Diane Keaton in Baby Boom. (Seriously. Who wants to make baby food for a living?) But every now and then, I get carried away, and start speculating over homestead prices.

This is one of those times. K is in NY for a few days, and so Belly and I are spending the weekend up in the town of Point Reyes Station, about an hour and a half north of Oakland. The town borders the Point Reyes National Seashore, one of my favorite places in the whole world, and is situated in picturesque rolling hills and redwoods and pines and grasses giving way to long, epic beaches with sleeper waves that can come sweep you and your unleashed dog off to sea, if you’re not careful.

I love it up here. The first time I visited was on a day trip was when I was fourteen or so. I think—we have pictures and I still have braces, so, a long time ago, to me anyway. But I’ve never stayed up here overnight. Belly and I located some of the most moderately priced lodging in the area, the Inn of the Silver Foxes (link). The “inn” is a room with a full bath connected to this larger structure built sometime in the 1970s with two other rooms, and also the house of the proprietor. She’s this elderly lady called Anne Dick. When we first arrived, I could see her though the glass door and via a mirror sitting watching tv, and vaguely scratching the top of her head. I knocked repeatedly and loudly, but she didn’t hear me, so eventually I had to open the door and say “HELLO” nearly yelling. It took three tries before she came out and looked at me like I was trying to sneak into her house and steal her fancy Mac computer and vintage 1980 stationary bike and treadmill.

The inn is very nice, and very reasonably priced, if you were wondering. There’s a huge bed with a feather-topped mattress, stacks of National Geographics from the last fifteen years, even a Smithsonian with Mel Gibson circa “The Patriot” on the cover. It’s an oddly shaped sort of building, connecting four different structures, not unlike my temporary senior housing at Vassar. Plus, the place comes loaded with cute little extras, like instant Quaker oatmeal and juice boxes and not one, not two, but three Coleman lanterns.

There is no wireless internet up here, not surprisingly, but I also don’t get cell phone reception. When I first discovered this, I felt a little like I did on IHP (International Honors Program—my strange, awful, wonderful Junior year abroad experience) frantically checking my Blackberry when we arrived in some new remote area of a country to see if I would be able to call my mom and be neurotic, or conspiratorial, or weepy. Of course, this is quite different, and my “oh, man” feelings soon gave way to “ooh, this is exciting, kind of like the beginning of a psycho killer movie”. This is what people (urbanites) are talking about when they name-drop “getting away from it all” right? We are away from it all. It’s very quiet, just me and Bells puttering around. I came equipped with several DVDs, and who knew—no phones, but ol’ Anne has cable.

Belly and I took a walk into town in the early evening. The population of Pt. Reyes Station is 350, elevation 33 ft. And while I know I would probably move here and be disillusioned right quick, it seems really, really great. There’s enough of a blend of hippies, yuppies, rednecks, conservative retirees and escaping scensters that it doesn’t feel dominated by any particular demographic. (I’m basing this sweeping generalization on the number of Tibetan prayer flags, Remember 9-11 stickers, Audis, biodeisel vehicles, tie-dye t-shirts and dive bars I saw). The main drag of the town (Marin St?) is loaded with cute restaurants, yarn shops, and creameries. I’m already familiar with the seashore, but inland is equally enchanting, and believe me, I hate using words like “enchanting”. The light is perfect; the hills are covered in blonde wheat or pale green buffalo grass and dotted with fat Jersey cows. Little streams run through redwood groves laced with honeysuckle and blackberries and poison oak (stay away!). The air smells like eucalyptus, or juniper, or white pine, and oh my god, Belly, it’s a Shetland pony!

Fuck the “real world” I supposedly live in. I’ll see you at my organic vegetable stand—we live up the road, our ranch goes right down to the beach.

Day Two

I didn’t realize, when making reservations for the weekend, that almost none of Point Reyes National seashore and the surrounding region is open to dogs. This is a real bummer, seeing as I’m up here with a sixty-pound puppy who likes to run around off leash. We found a beach just north of the seashore called Dillon Beach, which allows dog to run free.

Belly just loves the beach. More than anyone, probably. She rolls in the sand, chases birds, tries to eat washed up jellyfish and stray pieces of kelp. She also poops, three times at least, which is kind of a pain when you’re trying to take a nice walk. Belly is afraid of waves, which is hilarious, because she usually wants to get kind of wet, but gets very upset when the water chases her. But basically, the beach is her nirvana. Crappy cell phone pictures attached illustrate unbridled joy.

*Full disclosure—I stole this phrase from my senior comp class.