You have reached your destination!

So says TomTom, or "The Bitch," as we named her.
We got into lovely San Francisco last night ... CG just walked out of the bathroom beardless. Sad.
So yes. In Cayucos we went to a bar called, I think, the Saloon. Eighties-rock cover band, all members with long flowing hair. Mullets abounded, as did mustaches, and all were dancing. Lesbians, bikers, and almost everyone trapped in decades past. But all seeming to genuinely have fun, no pretention (how could there be?), none of those blank stares, those We-should-be-having-fun looks you see in schmancy Boston bars.
And in the morning up the coast, up Route 1 between cliffs and sea. I've written this before, I'm sure, but it's something to take on the whole continent on wheels and then drive along its very edge. It's a good thing we holed up for the night. The storm knocked loose mud and dirt and rocks into the road, and some of the slides were being cleared by bulldozers and plows as we drove, and others just marked by dirty traffic cones. We ate in Carmel, at a Black Bear Diner, which had a menu so perversely filled with puns ("Breakfast, for the bearly awake," and "Coffee's bruin," and the like) that I wrote on the comment card, "There were more puns than I thought paws-ible." Har har.
And then into San Francisco, to CG's brother's place on Russian Hill. We went out for beers in North Beach, and to Tommaso's for pizza (OH MY GOD) and wine, and back here for the night. Now it's about 11:30 and we'll be taking off soon, CG to check out his new office and me to explore the city, and hopefully meeting up with our friend Aaron, since he has an air mattress with my name on it.
Wednesday morning I fly home, in time for the beloved Boru's two-dollar-beer night. I'm making plans in my head; something that involves packing up the Malibu, again, and moving to Santa Barbara or somewhere similar, job or no.