Big Sur is blanketed in fog except for scattered mile-long stretches that open up and shine blue and green around us. We get up at six in the morning and drive without stopping until we reach a point where the Pacific is replaced by a thick carpet of cloud. S takes a picture of the grey while I take a picture of him.
He asks me why I like long drives so much, the hours turning into meters of road slipping away under our car. I tell him it’s because everything is so speeded up and this seems like the only way to slow it down. There’s so much to see and you miss it when all you do is fly above it. Sometimes it’s nice to be able to pull over to the side of a road and just breathe.
I’ve been to Big Sur only once before and this time it seems different—maybe because I’m the one driving through the twisting cliffside roads. We take a short hike down to a waterfall. We eat sandwiches at the Big Sur Bakery. We pull over at too many vista points. I take a hundred photographs of rocks.
That night we’re exhausted. We light a fire in our hotel room because we’re chilled from a day spent wrestling gusts of ocean winds. I start thinking about writing again, about fantasy and made up places. I name a new city. We fall asleep early.