California dreaming

We're driving north up the Pacific Coast Highway, craning our necks to the left to watch the heavy orange sun sink into the ocean. The cotton candy clouds are tinted the same pink as my sunburned chest and shoulders, and the entire sky looks as if it's being illuminated by some very theatrical stage lighting. There's a companionable silence in the car, because really, what is there to say beyond the occasional Wow or Would you look at that?

We pull into town, driving along the beach on a street lined with tall palm trees. Beach volleyball is being played to our left and soccer to our right, the players soaking up every last drop of daylight before they call it a night. We park and get out of the car. It's 66° outside with a cool breeze rustling through the palm fronds. We're greeted by the salty smell of the sea and the sound of the waves before we even see the water in the fading light. The sand is built up in piles from the recent storm, and there are a couple small kids climbing on the piles.

It's all so picturesque, with the palm trees and the sand and the crashing waves, that for a moment, just for a moment, I'm overwhelmed with the desire to move here, suddenly sure that everything would be better if this idyllic spot felt like home, if this paradise was my reality.

But then I remember the frequent earthquakes. And the outrageous housing prices. And my refusal to wear Uggs when it's over 60°.

I guess we can't all be California girls.