During our two-or-so hour Salton Sea sojourn, there was much to be seen as light fell swiftly. Leaving Bombay Beach, our group trailed up the gravely roads on foot paralleling the Chocolate Mountains, which revealed their every crevice with the setting sun. This is a fleeting memento of the transient memories and of more to come.

To all the countless times you’ve let me take your picture and all the terrifically winsome, goofy faces produced from them;

To your instinctive intellect, old-fashioned vestments, grammatical correctness, rugged manliness, talent for being spontaneous, and soulful sentiments;

For tirelessly traveling the world, shooting from the hip, and effortlessly putting a smile on my face the whole way through (as long as your appetite has been sufficiently satisfied, and as we have learned mine, too);

For being supportive of my every endeavor including, but not limited to, seeing numerous pictures of you on my blog celebrating our happy hearts;

For simply being you,
helping me be a better me.

Here’s to two years of ever-great memories and many more with you.

Chris and I passed through Bombay Beach on our way to visit family camping on the east side of the Salton Sea. We only had about twenty minutes to spend due to a considerate gesture gone awry.

The quiet, downtrodden neighborhood is the desolate ruin of a glamorous vestige. Vintage cars sit unscathed by the dry heat. Children kick up dirt as they ride their bikes through wide, barren streets. The lingering, rotting smell drifting from the Salton Sea is overpowering.

Situated in a California desert, the sea was conceived by an engineered mishap that gave rise to a blossoming resort community only to be destroyed by massive flooding resulting in the tremendous state of disrepair it’s loyal community continues to inhabit. The story is out of the ordinary.

The history of the Salton Sea is utterly fascinating – I had never heard of the place, but now I cannot wait to go back. For those curious, check out the documentary Plagues and Pleasures on the Salton Sea by Chris Metzler and Jeff Springer.

Postscript: Happy Irish Day! Drink a car bomb, or two. Hey, what can I say, I like having the ultimate milkshake once a year!

Mission Basilica San Diego de Alcala is the first of the 21-mission system that made its way up and along the Californian coast. The expedition of Franciscan Friars on the Baja mission was led by Father Junipero Serra (a face you become well-accustomed to in San Diego) who established the mission on July 16, 1769. The current structure is the fifth to be built on site having fallen victim to American Indian riots, natural catastrophes, collapse from conversion into a two-level barrack by Mexican artillerymen, and abandonment. Yet in 1931, the mission was rebuilt and stands as it is today.

Akin to my previous post, there were so many stunning details at hand. The fountain in the courtyard sits in place of the cistern that once provided water from the Old Mission Dam. It was magical sitting there listening to the faint sounds – wind blowing, children laughing, footsteps wandering – as we seized the rich history of tradition and antiquity.

The best part of this mission (ha ha!) was after Chris and I infiltrated a class of fourth-graders on a grounds tour (these kids spend a whole year learning history from their native state, something I thought to be very neat). The tour guide asks, “How do you think they got those wooden beams so high without a crane?” Curbing our desire to raise our hand to suggest an answer, we discovered the width of the church is decided upon the beam with the shortest length, all others cut to size. As for lifting them so high, roughly 30-ft., after each layer of adobe was applied, builders would lift the beams up layer by layer. And all we could think was what the kids were thinking: Coooool.

And as a side note, I think San Diego has given me a case of collage fever.

A couple of hours after catching up with Chris in San Diego, we perambulated Balboa Park absorbing a multitude of incredibly pristine detail every which way we turned. As any place with such grandeur, a long-lasting history endures.

Balboa Park was once known as City Park, a dedicated public park with 1,400 acres of “scrub-filled mesa.” The lackluster landscape started to bloom in 1892 when the Mother of Balboa Park, Kate Sessions, agreed to plant 100 trees every year in exchange for 32 acres to be devoted to a commercial nursery. Yet the vitality of the Spanish-Renaissance architectural style that prevails is attributed to the First World’s Fair: the 1915-16 Panama-California Exposition.

The Cabrillo Bridge, a historic 1,500 foot-long viaduct adorned with globe lights, follows the El Prado walkway to the San Diego Museum of Man, two of the three permanent structures originally constructed for the exposition, establishing the area’s arts & culture mecca. All other existing buildings have been reconstructed as they began as wood and plaster structures.

An odd marriage between old and new was the Bell Tower of the Museum of Man with visible foghorns that rang out its bell sounds. It was the only thing that troubled and reminded me of a similar feeling I had about an image I took in Portugal (I wished for a man to be ringing the bells!). Though the further we walked, the more I relaxed into the tranquility of the El Prado walkway, and it was soon forgotten until it was time to post to this blog.

Approaching the Bea Evenson Fountain was the blissful finale on this particular stroll as we people-watched and took in the final rays at sunset. Soon after returning to our charming bed & breakfast, I proceeded to sleep for ten hours – the best medicine to cure time change.

Chris and I mostly drove through Hollywood. I wasn’t particularly interested in the place. A lot of it is rundown just outside the “glamorous” part. I was a good tourist though as we trekked up a street to find a decent view of the sign. If you followed it all the way to the end it brought you right into Hollywoodland.

The houses in Hollywoodland were quite unusual. Many of them were built into the ridges around steep, undulating roads from top to bottom. Definitely not like the suburban New England I’ve become so accustomed to. I would take the varieties of palms with me. They were neat.

More travel photos to come soon: I’ll be making my way out to Old Town, San Diego in February. Oh, the excitement!

Locals might laugh at me for being in utter awe for the entirety of my first trip to the west side of the states, but all that ungodly heat, vast desert, and its undoubtedly bonkers residents had me all wide-eyed and bushy-tailed. And shvitzing. Since we had no time to spare, these shots were taken in transit.

Instead of missing it, I’m just looking forward to our cross-country road trip, whenever that may be.

*Editors Note: Originally I illustrated the areas pictured above from Death Valley, but my handsome hunny from the West Coast has duly informed me otherwise, hence the correction of the two deserts. Still not someplace to be left behind.

We arrived at the South Rim of the Grand Canyon just before the break of dawn. With fingers crossed, we got there just in the nick of time to find ourselves, shake off the delirium and get it together for some amazing views as the sun raced slowly above the canyon walls.

It was a godly experience just to see the ever-changing vibrancy of colors continuously altering minute after minute.

While waiting for a table, we talked in our animated ways, waiting on the terrace for our beeper to blink, while a chilly breeze swept through every couple of minutes wringing goose pimples all over my arms. As the chit-chatting carried on, I snapped a couple of my mama; she is the prettiest person I know.