Heavy and cool, this fog that rolled in sometime in the night. My wife and I knew the carpenters building the new cottage beside our house would soon arrive, turn on their table saws and air guns, and scare all the pretty birds away who visit here from the forest. For them, the work continues. For us, all we can do is watch, wait, and hope that some day it will be done. This day we needed to look at some different kind of landscape, and opted for our customary quick drive down the coast to Monterey and Carmel.

We headed directly to a small, hideaway breakfast place in Carmel village, where we could sit and sip rich coffee while waiting for our order to be cooked. When we eat out, we fudge some on our vegan diet, but not by much. We split a spinach omelet, then walked up and down the hilly sidewalks and secret passageways that make Carmel so mysteriously charming, despite all the overt materialism that exudes from galleries and shop windows.

We went in one gallery of paintings. It must have been only moments after the salesperson opened, as she rushed around in a tizzy, looking to see if the store was picked up, nice and clean. Then the sales pitch began. She somehow had it in mind that within less than five minutes of us being in the store that we were going to buy a twelve thousand dollar painting. I don't know how big the bubbles are that sales people blow up in their heads. If I were given the privilege to look within this lady's mind for a minute or two, I'm sure I would see something more interesting to the human imagination than what hangs on gallery walls.

We did see some nice paintings in the village. Carmel is an art center, known for traditional scenery. Land, sea, and sky, usually portrayed in cool ocean blues and greens, contrasting with earth-warm tones of soft brown and subdued red. I've been looking at paintings in Carmel for fifty years, and this is what continues to dominate display windows. In other towns, other venues, the decorated world of abstraction comes to life, but here looks quirky, odd and intrusive, as if some sort of non-native plant or animal wants to gain control of life's resources.

The fog that extended from Santa Cruz to Carmel never quite lifted all day. After further exploring the back streets and ocean front along Carmel Bay, marveling at the beauty of the aquamarine meeting of sand and water, our car helped us climb over the pine-studded Del Monte Forest that separates Carmel from Pacific Grove. The town of Pacific Grove separates the open ocean from the Monterey Bay at Point Pinos. Inside the bay, to the north of the point, the ocean becomes less turbulent. Paths allow walkers access to rocky coves filled with colorful clear water. This time of year, however, the ice plant that stretches for several miles on both sides of the paths, becomes an intensely bright purple. When mixed with sunlight, the color is almost too bright to look at.

We stopped and looked, sort of falling into and becoming absorbed by the purple. Up close I could see this quilt of color consists of tiny flowers with less-apparent yellow centers. Others also walked along the path. I could see them bending, snapping close-ups; then standing, turning, and snapping long shots of distant beds of color. On all the coast, I never see such display of color as this.

Beyond Pacific Grove, out on the old Fishermen's Wharf in Monterey, we stop in to price fresh-caught salmon. The price is still exorbitant. We pass on such an investment in food. To think that my ancestors would drive a hay wagon down to the river mouth and pitchfork salmon into the wagon to take back to the farm to feed to the pigs. Despite the growing scarcity of fish on the Monterey Bay, a few large commercial operations are still in business here. We find it interesting to snoop around out on the end of the wharf and watch the activity of fish being unloaded from large boats and packed on ice.

Going home through Castroville's fields of artichokes, we stop at Pezzini's and buy a bag of chokes to bring home and cook. The store is parked out in a vast field of artichokes, just off the highway. This coming weekend is Castroville's annual artichoke festival, where Marilyn Monroe was crowned the first artichoke queen in 1948. I probably will not be going to the festival. I like seeing this part of the country when it is bereft of people. Besides, the carpenters working on the new cottage will have the weekend off and home will be quiet for a couple of days.