More Adventures: Carmel... and Beyond

It’s time to play catch-up. I have missed writing the past couple of days, and my entry now comes from Mendecino, California, where we arrived last night, Thursday, after a long day’s drive north from Carmel. More of our arrival here later. In the meantime, Wednesday, Carmel…

I woke at my customary early hour and used the time before Ellie and George woke for a good, quiet meditation. Then down to the shore, the three of us, for a walk at dawn to the extreme north end of the beach. George, as usual, in heaven, free to run as far as either of us could manage to throw the ball for him before charging back, ball firmly clamped between his jaws, impatient for the next challenge. There were a number of other dog-walkers at this time of day, a few challenges for ball possession from larger pooches, but George is not to be beaten at his own game. He’s fast.

We stopped at a local coffee shop on the way back to our room. Ellie disappointed to discover they had run out of their supply of black English breakfast tea—a habit she has acquired over years of living with a Brit who is unreconstructed in at least two matters: the morning tea and marmalade for breakfast. No other country, including this America, has managed to understand the difference between marmalade and orange jam. In this instance, Ellie was reduced to settling for an Italian latte.

Back at the hotel, we were treated to a breakfast “basket”—muffins, some butter and jam, and a hard-boiled egg—much of which was left uneaten. A little while later, we hit the sidewalks of Carmel in search of a New York Times and a special restaurant for our last dinner before leaving this dog-friendly tourist haven. We found both—the former only after many false leads, the last copy in the rack at a liquor store. The NYT sales department would be proud of our persistence.

One thing you can say about George: he is a smile maker. It’s a wonderful quality. Walk down any street with George, and you’ll manage to create a dozen smiles. In the course of any given day, he can be relied on to create hundreds of them. Plus, of course, the inquiries into what kind of a dog he is (a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, as I’m sure I have mentioned recently.) Occasionally, as today, we will run into another of his breed—in this case a “tri”, a tricolor, black, white and brown.



(We ran into her at a coffee shop,



where we were surprised to find that dogs were permitted inside the café, joining their people gathered around the tables there.) George, by the way, brown and white only, is a “Blenheim”—pronounced, please, in the English manner, “blenim.” He takes the widespread admiration in stride, allowing his admirers a brief pat or two, but without pandering for more.
Speaking of dogs, Carmel boasts what has to be the most elaborate dog paraphernalia shop on the face of the earth. It’s called, I think, Doggidy-dog—or some such thing—and we stopped by to admire the wares...


... from home-baked doggies birthday cakes to capes and sweaters and thrones of all shapes and sizes. We abstained. I for one am not a fan of doggie-designer items. George plays with a tennis ball, rescued from the disposal bin at the local tennis courts, not some fancy rubber bone or stuffed animal. Sniff.

We shared a ham-and-cheese Panini for a light lunch, and repaired shortly to our hotel room for a nap and an hour or so with our books before starting the packing process for an early departure, Thursday. The restaurant we had located earlier in the day, on our rounds, proved a winner. Grasing’s. We sat outside, in a courtyard behind the main restaurant, and shared throughout: excellent onion tart for a starter, a first-rate Caesar salad (with real anchovies, a treat for P), and rack of lamb accompanied by a very pleasant glass of Pinot Noir. Leaving room, at the end, for chocolate mousse cake a la mode.

All of which Ellie managed to enjoy with George planted sleepily on her lap.


You may say this dog is pampered…

Carmel, Day 2

I notice that at the end of yesterday’s entry, I slipped unconsciously into the use of that old-fashioned word, “owner.” Like many animal lovers these days, I have always been uncomfortable with that word, and it seems to me quite inappropriate when it comes to George. I don’t feel that I “own” him. He’s a free spirit, who allows us the privilege of taking care of him, even as he brings extraordinary gifts into our lives. Even though he remains dependent on us for the smallest things, like preparing his food and picking up his poop when need arises, he does not appear to regard these efforts as any great favor, but simply what we humans are there to do for dogs.

Anyway, back to Carmel, where we spent a reasonably comfortable night despite our fears, and enjoyed a modest breakfast with George in the hotel lobby. It’s amazing to be sharing space with numerous dogs, all of whom seem to get along remarkably well. George, it must be admitted, suffers from a slight Napoleon complex: he’s a little chap, in stature if not in heart, and he sometimes—well, often—needs to prove his doghood with others of his species with a little aggressive lunge and a few good yaps. Once he gets to know them, though, he’s friendly enough. It’s just a matter of establishing his street cred.

Carmel, I have to say, is about the dog-friendliest place you could imagine. Dogs everywhere. George especially appreciates the fact that he’s allowed on the long beach off-leash, free to prance about with all the other dogs, as nature intended. Where his ball is in play, however, he is intent: not even an earthquake, let alone a few other four-legged creatures, could deter him from the task at hand. Which brings me to this morning…

After breakfast, Ellie and I decided to split up—amicably, I hasten to add: she wanted to spend time in the shops, in particular to find something to protect her from the unexpected chill that is permanently in the air here in Carmel. I, on the other hand, chose the beach with George.



We parted company, and George and I enjoyed a great walk down by the water’s edge whilst Ellie did her shopping, returning to the hotel in time to do what I had promised myself not to do: make a blog entry. I guess I’m addicted. Actually, I had started a simple journal earlier in the day, and it occurred to me, with a half hour to spare before Ellie returned, that it was almost silly to write the journal and not include a few pictures and post it as a blog. Here's Ellie, by the way, reading the first installment.


So I did it. I can’t swear that it will continue, but at least I got a start.

A wander around the streets of Carmel brought us finally to a grocery store around lunchtime, where we bought a couple of so-so sandwiches and ate them in the pleasant surroundings of one of the city’s many picturesque court-yards. Then back to our hotel to check out and move in to the new one. A tiny, tiny room, which George had no trouble in appropriating...


... and definitely a lot quieter and more pleasant--a great place for a welcome nap...


and a couple of hours with a book. I’m reading the new Alan Furst novel, “The Spies of Warsaw.” (If you haven’t yet encountered Alan Furst, I’d certainly recommend him as an excellent read. While the genre is a blend of historical novel, spy novel and thriller, his books are set at the periphery of the great historical events in Europe that led up to World War II—a period that he captures in all its complexity with an amazing eye and ear for detail.)

A late afternoon stroll, then,


and an early dinner (again, with George) at Nico’s, a restaurant with a fine Mediterranean menu and a quiet back court festooned with bougainvillea.


Our waiter was a young man who had arrived in the United States from Bosnia during the troubles there, and who spoke utterly unaccented English—though he could, when called upon, also revert to the perfect Bosnian accent. Very charming. We shared a roasted garlic appetizer with crisp Tuscan bread, an arugula salad, and a tagliatella dish with Bolognese sauce. George had to make to with a few crumbs he found scattered under the table.

And finally, a walk back down to admire the beach at sunset...


... where George was deeply disappointed in us to learn that we had neglected, this time, to bring a ball.