It was exactly 20 years ago that I last visited Carmel. It was my 16th birthday and my mom planned a memorable girl’s vacation around her business trip to San Francisco. Carmel in particular left an indelible imprint with its meld of Bohemian charm and opulent indulgences. I had never been anywhere like it. No matter what the size, each house touted itself as a majestic fortress and lawns exploded with growth and color. There are no billboards, parking meters, streetlights or street addresses anywhere.
Or high heels. I am still trying to figure out the reasoning behind that city ordinance. Or what they do to those rebellious offenders.
Jamie and I stayed at the Sandpiper Inn, just half a block from the ocean. One of the great things about traveling with him is we love to do the same things. Or rather, he likes to do the same things as me (however you look at it. 
Despite the inclement weather, we were able to capitalize on those moments of calm by cruising the 17-Mile Drive, wandering along the beach, playing in Monterey, hiking Point Lobos State Preserve and trekking to Big Sur.
One thing I learned early on is Californians like to exploit their snoozy Pacific Coast Time by slowing up the rest of the world. Our first exposure to this was when we learned our B&B did not serve breakfast until 8 a.m. For those mathematicians out there, that is 9 a.m. Denver time, which is also equal unto when we go into shock due to extreme food deprivation.
When we were finally fed, we drove over to the state park, only to learn it did not open until 9 a.m. In Amber Time, this may as well be midnight because I had already been awake half the day. We were among the first in line at the gate and the park ranger leisurely commented, “Well, aren’t you the early birds?” Evidently, they have an abundance of worms for folks like us.
After exploring the epic coastline, we drove south to Pfieffer Big Sur State Park. Our plan was to hike to some famous falls in the redwood forest and then grab lunch in Big Sur. We had envisioned it as the biggest, baddest beach town in California. Jamie claims there was a Big Sur waterbed company years ago and even our latest Crate and Barrel catalog has a line of oceanfront Big Sur products.
So, imagine how thrilled we were when we kept driving and driving…and drove right through it. Turns out, Big Sur’s thriving metropolis consists of a last-chance gas station and a couple of decrepit buildings tucked away in the Santa Lucia Mountain range. Who knew?
We didn’t and the only reason we knew we were actually in Big Sur is our GPS lady nagged us that we had missed our destination.
Not that I trust her or anything. When guiding us to San Jose’s airport the next day, she instead led us to the exact center of town. Which incidentally happened to be Denny’s.
Perhaps it was a sign that despite our best intentions for a perfect romantic getaway, that California livin’ just ain’t always a Grand Slam?
Or that we just need to sleep in and skip the outdoorsy crap in favor of more artery-clogging pastimes….
I'm a Canadian-born mom of two, former Denver Post columnist, family travel writer, editor of MileHighMamas.com and 9News contributor. Expert on all things Utah, Denver, family and travel. Lover of laughter and life. Happily married to a man obsessed with growing The Great Pumpkin. 