What is the best gift to give your fragile, California-living self after two weeks of the best weather Boston has to offer in March? And keep in mind that “best” means 20 degree days and one blizzard that decided to plop down in the middle of my trip, so...
Four days in the California desert wilting in 95 degree heat should do the trick! Ahem, I mean, not that I’m complaining about my chosen cure but you know the Bay Area really has very nice weather and I might just be a delicate flower now after almost seven(!) years of it.
Truthfully, there was very little wilting, because all hiking was done in the morning and our lovely airbnb had a pool in the backyard that I could just hang out in whenever I pleased. And then, on our last day as I began to feel like the heat was just a little too much, we took the tram up to the top of Mt. San Jacinto, where I got to then feel a little too chilly in my shorts and sandals as I walked on the snow, so you know, my weekend in the desert was really quite pleasant.
There may have been some climatological whiplash, but I got to hang out for three days with friends I never get to see, and we drank margaritas and rose by the pool and over-bought food and played endless rounds of Love Letter and generally just had a blast. One night we went out for drinks at the Ace Hotel, where I discovered I was neither cool enough nor drunk enough to really want to hang out there, so we walked ourselves down the street to a wine bar that was blissfully quiet and so dark the bartender gave us flashlights to use to read the menu. Much better.
We went to Joshua Tree, where I was excited to see the NPS continuing its tradition of signs showing the truly gruesome and certain death you will enjoy if you step one foot off the path. Undaunted, we proceeded on our hike and took a million photos of creepy Joshua trees and all the wildflowers bursting out in the superbloom.
On Monday, as we headed toward the airport and into a truly apocalyptic cloud of grey smog, we learned our flight home had been canceled, and so our return trek turned into an impromptu, six-hour road trip kicked off with a wonderful side trip to LA for lunch. I finally realized my dream of eating the ricotta toast at Sqirl, and also the sorrel pesto bowl and the kabbouleh and the rhubarb berry pie and the rhubarb lemonade and the two jars of jam I brought home to be slowly and carefully rationed. Amen.
And then, as we drove north we passed hillsides absolutely painted with fiery orange poppies exploding in drought-busting joy. March in California > March in Boston, no question.
