Day Six:

Oh you crazy Carmel, with your lack of street numbers and your obvious expensive tastes, fit only for Clint Eastwood and a drunken Thomas Kinkade. Your breakfast of polenta, sautéd mushrooms, grilled tomato, goat cheese, and poached egg filled me to the brim for a walk down your airy streets of silly, mediocre galleries and wardrobes too pricey for these eyes to look at. You were far more hospitable than Monterey, yet so upscale that you made even my car feel under-dressed. How people live here I have no idea, but I am sure it involves investments, smart life choices, selling a billion HDR-esque paintings, or just simply having a ton of Hollywood money. I enjoyed you, but one morning was enough. And I’m not paying to drive 17 miles to see a tree.