Here is how our trip has been planned(ish) thus far: We get a general idea of where we want to go. We figure how long we want to drive each day, check Passport America, and pick a place to rest and wash up before we hit the road again to our destination. This time, our destination was Big Sur. The dot on the map was Paso Robles. We had no idea. Now, I know there has been a trend with us never knowing whats going on, getting lost and not finding camping spots, but I firmly believe in being purposefully ignorant as we travel, not researching photos or reviews so that the mystery stays alive. It’s been pretty neat so far.

We drove through something very similar to what heaven must look like. Hills made of green velvet, mixed with acres upon acres of grape vines. We made our way through little back roads—what I imagine the French backcountry must look like—where we were the only souls for miles around, save for the bees humming along the perfectly symmetrical rows of grapes.

Paso Robles is a pocket of the country capable of creating exceptional wines. The combination of soils and elevation create the richness, depth, and character of the wines. That and they tremble delicately along the cool breeze of the Pacific Ocean. I know very little about wine, but I have a respect for it.

 An old French proverb reads, “In water ones sees one’s own face. But in wine one beholds the heart of another.”

The very next day we made our way through a handful of wineries, stopping to get a free tasting of five different wines at each. The wine attendant would ask us which ones we’d like to try, and we’d look at the menu like we knew what we were doing and randomly picked a few whites and reds.

Let me tell you. Each one was to die for. The attendant would tell us the story behind each wine, pointing behind him as to where on the property it was grown. We felt like Kennedys.

I know there is a lot of psychology at play with wine tasting, but I don’t mind falling for the whole façade.  What I would describe as bold and delicious, the real definition would be “exploding with rhubarb, raspberry, cigar box, cinnamon and thyme, all well balanced with hints of earthiness and caramel. It is a big shouldered wine (what?), paired well with roasted lamb.” Like a person in a different country, we played along with the new language, nodding and swirling, sniffing and sipping. We bought a couple of bottles, as is customary with wine tasting.

This guy offered us chocolate in between sips, to bring out the “bouquet” of flavor. Yes, please.

We ended up at Eberle Winery, where they offer free cave tours of their cellar. We were too late for that, but we were stopped out front by Gary, the owner and creator of all the wines. He was a charmer, sitting out on his patio, drinking away his profits with a few friends. After our tasting, I, a bit tipsy at that point, complimented him on his Cabernet as we came out, doing the “we’re not worthy!” bit from Wayne’s World. He laughed, politely.

This is why we don’t belong.

We stayed at the Vines RV resort (with our P.A card). I don’t mean to be over-zealous, but I can honestly say that this place was so extravagant that we felt like celebrities. The front desk attendants acted like our friends, coming out on separate trips to visit with Emmylou, giving her treats. There bathrooms sinks were made of marble, lit with chandeliers—there were two pools, a hot tub, a gym, laundry, a library and a very Don Drapper-esk bar with complimentary pool table. All for twenty five bucks a night. This would be, by far, the fanciest place we would stay on our trip.

In front of our camp was the library connected to the Magnolia Lounge.

I swam like a fish every day, sometimes twice a day.

The next day we drove a little ways up Hwy 1 to Cayucos in Estero Bay to spend the afternoon at the beach. Emmylou may as well be a grayhound the way she ran on the surf after flocks of birds. We look away for a second and there she was, a hardly recognizable dot off in the distance.

 

We stopped in that night to the Magnolia lounge for a glass of wine, and it was then that we met Michelle and her brother, Eddie and his friend, Meg. We were playing pool when Eddie approached, saying that we have a beautiful spirit, and he just wanted to let us know. Eddie, an ex-Hells Angels-rider-turned-spiritual-teacher, was in from Hawaii for a while to care of his mother.

Eddie wears his long hair in loose bun, and has a thick, almost fu manchu mustache. We liked him right away.  We sat and chatted with him and Michelle, his sister, the Cordon Bleu Chef-bartender, for hours. There was no one else in the bar so we challenged them to a game of pool, and throughout the night Eddie took care of all our drinks, no questions asked.

If we said something he liked, he would fist-bump us saying “that’s right my brother”, or “ah, man I love that, hell yah, hell yah.” He shared his philosophy of living his life with no regrets, about the struggle of taking care of older parents, about his crazy past and living in South America. They were both excited to hear our plans to drive all the way up the coast, past Big Sur and up through Oregon, and they were full of ideas of where we should go. Hurst Castle, for one, and also to have a glass of wine at the top of Nepenthe, a bar overlooking the ocean at Big Sur.

They let Emmylou come hang out, but once she realized we spent our time playing with sticks and balls, she was inconsolable. She had to have the pool balls. We escorted her out.

Later that night Eddie invited us for dinner at Denny’s, paying for everything. He really put his heart on his sleeve, telling us how great it was to meet us, and we said the same. He handed us a CD of his band (he plays the saxophone), and signed it for us. We drove home a little past midnight, and when we got there I heard my phone buzz. It was from Eddie. “Peace N blessings to you both, B true 2 your school…kiss the bub ster”

Michelle, Meg and Eddie are such refreshing, charasmatic people. We are lucky to have met them.

 

 

Up next — Big Sur