I spend the two days before leaving for Black Rock City (BRC) at a shipyard in Berkeley, helping to construct the art car and to pack the camp’s supplies. The site is abuzz with the hiss of spray paint, the sizzle and crackle of welding, and the clangs of metal against metal. We work through the night and into the next day before finally mustering the troops and pointing our caravan toward Nevada.

BRC is a glow on the horizon as we pull toward it in the late evening. The city is still under construction; we have arrived early to set up. Fine particles blow up off the playa (ply-uh) and envelop us in a cloud of clay dust. I don my amber-tinted ski goggles, and the world is rendered in sepia tones—as though the memories here are destined to be treasured and extracted years later, weathered by time and wind and dust. A gentleman named Squirrel welcomes us. I step over a line in the sand and ring a bell; under the bright moon, I enter Burning Man.

Midnight on Sunday is the official start of Burning Man. Already, it has been three days since I had a shower. My hands are dry and filthy, layers of dust and bike grease and food coat them in a mottled white glove and outline my nails with black. I help make pancakes for the camp. That evening, I cook fajitas and then pitch my tent. As darkness falls, thumps of light and heat punctuate the flashing, glowing, musical hustle of preparations; they are huge, distant flame-throwers, launching fireballs into the air.

The first full evening of Burning Man is a Monday, and a full lunar eclipse. I begin exploring this surreal world: shots at the Tequila Shack, bad dancing penalized by fire at Dance Dance Immolation, jokes and songs in exchange for a mug of IP-fucking-A at the Carbofuckingnation Camp, building with magnetic blocks beneath a peaceful tent, pounding furiously on bongos as a carousel comes to life and animates a death-dance between a gorilla and a snake… As the eclipse begins, I bike to the Opulent Temple. There, I dance among the thumping techno, glowsticks, lasers, and dual jets of fire that periodically erupt from the DJ booth. One such flash burns an image in my mind: a beautiful woman, topless and bedecked with beaded decorations, arms and hair flailing wildly, her eyes closed. She is smiling. I dance for hours, moving from party to party, high on the energy of the city, as the shadow of the Earth consumes whole the once-brilliant moon.

Just then, when every eye is turned skyward, the Man begins to burn. The ceremonial burning is supposed to happen at the conclusion of the event on Saturday night; this is Monday, this is unplanned. Someone had torched it. Standing next to my bike, just outside the safety perimeter hastily arranged by the BRC Rangers, I watch pieces of the Man break off in flaming chunks and tumble down the sloped tent roof. The wooden effigy is fully engulfed in flames by the time water trucks and fire crews manage to tame the conflagration. The spectacle over, and I head toward home, but my attention is drawn to a cluster of red and blue lights. A shirtless man with face paint is being handcuffed and frisked, while half a dozen other officers supervise the proceedings and a K-9 team keeps the hippies at a distance. It was the arsonist, Paul Addis. I watch his arrest with the smoldering Man behind me and the red, eclipsed moon above.

The spectacles amass throughout the week. I slurp down ramen while watching a gorgeous moonrise, climb the steampunk tree, watch wraith-like kites drift in the sky like enormous white apparitions, visit the Thunderdome as people clamber over its geodesic shell and await the next battle, play with the bouncing glow-trees that left me giggling, and bike out to the fence-line that borders BRC. Pausing to rest at that edge between city and oblivion, I notice a serious-looking dust storm approaching. I cannot make it to my camp, but get as far as the Temple, a huge wooden structure that evokes thoughts of a pagoda. On the structure itself, stretching as high as people can reach, are messages scrawled in pens and markers. It is a temple of forgiveness and of loss. “Goodbye Mom, Dad, & Muriel,” reads one message. Another: “I ask for guidance…” Some are simple messages of joy (“I am alive!”) and others of hope (“Mom, let’s be friends again”). I wander around the Temple, reading these messages through my ski goggles as the storm completely whites-out the world beyond my arms’ reach. I cry. Picking up a black marker and bracing against the fierce winds, I add two inscriptions.

On the way home, a man hands me a plastic, glowing lightsaber. “Sundown at the Man,” he says and bikes away. Thousands of swords are distributed throughout the day. The evening proceeds predictably.

Midway through the week, I am surprised to discover myself sick with loneliness. It happens while I am dancing at the Deep End, watching the crazy costumes and funny people amuse each other. I return to camp and get all introspective and moody. I stand by the side of the road to watch the sunset. Just then, a man on a bike pulls up to me and says, “You need to get changed!” I glance down at my shorts and t-shirt. His wife pulls up next to him.

“This is really all I have,” I confess sheepishly.

The man stares at me for a long moment, brow furrowed. “Come with me.” And I do. He gives me a playa costume, and his wife gives me some jewelry. I return to camp looking ridiculous and absurd and wonderful. With that improbable and perfectly timed gesture, the strangers had changed my attitude. I am not lonely or out of place anymore; the camp and the citizens of BRC embrace me, and I become another comical gem in the dazzling all-night parties.

On my last day, like nearly every other day, I go to the Turkish-style steam baths. Sitting nude in a small, insulated geodesic dome with a dozen strangers, I sweat myself clean. My friend Sara begins to hum a tone, and this evolves until we are all chanting an improvised song. I close my eyes and listen, contributing notes where I can. There is no embarrassment, no self-conscious shame or blushing cheeks in that dark hut of singing naked strangers. No money has exchanged hands among its occupants. There are no debts or loans. We have all given each other gifts, and do so even now by sharing this spiritual moment. Afterward, I volunteer to help the camp prepare cleaned and boiled rags for use in the baths. My friends KB and Stephanie join me.

Suddenly, a man rushes up to the camp’s leader, and, for the first time, I hear a Burner invoke an authority figure. “There was a videographer,” he explains, “filming the camp. Should we notify a Ranger?” This struck me. I had seen the citizens of Black Rock City drive drunk and drink underage, commit public nudity and lewd acts, and violate so many drug laws I couldn’t begin to name them. But the only time anyone expressed genuine concern for the safety of their fellow citizens was when a man with a camera tried to capture them on film.

“It is amazing how important that privacy is to the culture here,” I mused. “We’re comfortable with our nudity and craziness because it’s only being shared with other Burners, who share alike. The camera is stealing that gift.”

Stephanie, a photographer, nods and describes the challenges involved with documenting a party; how do you prevent yourself from changing the events you wish to seize on film? I geek out and talk about Heisenberg and about the observer effect. It is a deep property of the universe that measurement may change the outcome. KB speculates, perhaps idly, that there must be some broader philosophical principle there. Before he is done speaking, I know the answer.

I understand why the gift of the playa costume so drastically altered my mood. Why the loneliness did not strike me until I stopped working on the camp and the art car. Why I felt compelled to share my strongest emotions with the Temple. Why the premature burn was so important and exciting, and why the ceremonial burn felt so artificial and sterile.

I nod and pick up another rag, pleased to have given this gift of my time. And then I share my epiphany, smiling at the simplicity of it.

“You can never just observe.” I squeeze water from the washcloth. “You must participate.”

Sisi was kind enough to house me for the week, which at least meant my primary expense was food. Her friend Anthony was also crashing in her spacious two-bedroom corporate housing apartment, and so the three of us spent many evenings exploring the neighborhood and sharing bottles of wine.

Jason Hung was also in town on business. We caught a bus to Oxford for lunch with Yong-Hwa. [An amusing and colorful anecdote has been removed at her request.]

She hosted Jason and I for lunch, which turned into afternoon drinks, which turned into high tea (a term that apparently refers to the elevation of the scones and cakes). It was lovely.

In larger news, on July 1st, the UK went smoke-free in all enclosed public places, including bars and restaurants. The change was dramatic and welcome. I missed the iPhone release, though it seems to have been a success despite my absence. I spent the 4th of July here in London, where I decided to wear a shirt my dad bought for me, which reads “i > u“. Sisi, Anthony, several of their friends, and I wound up at a bar that evening, where I pretended that everything happening around me was in celebration of throwing off Britain’s tyrannous reign. In retrospect, that may not have been the case.

After spending an afternoon at the Tate Modern, wondering how I could become famous by signing a fake name on a urinal, I went to Shakespeare’s Globe theater to see the Merchant of Venice. A few meters from the door, a gust of wind caught my umbrella, inverted it, and then ripped it off the handle completely. I was left with a curved piece of wood in one hand, a bemused smirk on my face, and rain pouring down on my bare head. I have since purchased a new umbrella, that I am assured will remain whole, even in the face of weather.

Now I’m in DC, and just gave a talk at a PI Meeting. It went well, even though I made the slides on the plane.

At least three of the trips (Edinburgh, DC, and Anaheim) involve me giving a talk of some form, which means I have to convincingly feign cognizance. Sean is tying the knot in Portland, which will either make him a married man or qualify him to become an eagle scout. Or a sailor. Vegas is the MIT Pi Reunion, roughly 3.14 years after our graduation; I’ve got a room at the Wynn and tickets to Cirque. Vermont is a revivification of an old tradition, except in a better house and with people who care about each others well-being. I haven’t seen my family in a solid while, so I’ll be stopping there afterwards to raid the fridge and reluctantly (but with secret glee) accept numerous hugs.

Preparations for Burning Man have been ongoing for months now, beginning with the building of a 40′ diameter geodesic dome out of metal conduit piping (our trial assembly). The current projects involve making a cover for the dome, so that we can live inside of it happily, and designing the art car, which will apparently have wings. I joined up with a camp called DeMaTerial, which has gone to Burning Man before and includes several of my friends. I’m a playa virgin, so this will be a new experience.

I’ve been making an effort to leave my comfort zone whenever possible. I think it helps me grow as a person and inspires new ideas. Somewhere between Scotch tasting in the Scottish highlands and living in the Nevada desert in a colorful hemisphere of pipes and hotel sheets, I ought to be planted firmly outside of that comfort zone.

I hope it inspires more than just discomfort.

[removed by request]

May:

I met you my freshman year at MIT. You were one of my first friends there. We tooled furiously on multivariable calculus problem sets in the study lounge of MacGregor House. We were a team; me, you, Hung, Goggin, Daniel. We were in that together. I made jokes about your name, jokes that you had heard a thousand times before and probably a hundred more times after, many of those from me, again. We took many of the same classes. I remember eating Thai Cafe in an upstairs lounge of my dorm while we struggled through some horrible mathematics. You told us about the Second Cultural Revolution in China, and how it influenced your parents, and how it influenced you. You survived MIT; we all did.

We both got into Stanford’s graduate schools. You were the best of the best. We went to IKEA when you arrived in Palo Alto so that you could buy some furniture. You invited me to the tours of the Stanford Libraries, and I nearly died from boredom. I haven’t been there, since.

11:17:40 AM adam: hey may, just making sure you’re still alive

It was funny, at the time. Now I wish I had made that joke again, too.

I dragged you from your studying for quals to get Japanese food. One time we went to Homma and you had brown rice sushi for the first time. I tried to get you to come out for drinks, but you refused. “i’m not smart enough/therefore i need to study/more than you”. That is what you said. You raped your quals. You were always smarter than me, and you still worked harder than me. I always admired you for that.

We were both honored with Stanford Graduate Fellowships and we attended the award dinner. You sat next to Prof. Boyd, whom you admired. In the light of dawn, one morning last quarter, we crossed paths in the Quad. Beneath the palm trees, we exchanged greetings and promises of another meeting. Soon. That never happened.

9:49:12 PM may: ok, thanks for keeping me sane

9:49:29 PM adam: that’s my job

I’m sorry, May. I’m so, so sorry.

Farewell.

I’m proud of what my dad did next, and I like to think I would have done the same. To summarize: “Aw, hell no.” My dad began following Mr. Crazy, while simultaneously calling the police. He led my father on a winding tour of backroads, trying to lose him. With each turn my father updated the officers on Mr. Crazy’s location until the flashing lights became visible and converged on him like the closing hand of God. Four black and whites and an undercover car responded to the call. Mr. Crazy decided, against all logic and reason, to abandon his car and flee on foot into the backyards of Framingham suburbia. It is with no amount of shock that I report the man was quickly tackled and subdued. My father identified the man as the driver who hit him. Mr. Crazy was charged with assault with a deadly weapon and (shock!) driving while intoxicated.

On a positive note, congratulations to Ben Liblit on winning the ACM PhD Dissertation Award. Ben is a former student of my advisor, Alex Aiken. Slashdot carried the story a few days ago. I’ve been using his tools and hacking around in his code as part of my own work, which makes me feel special by extension. Leeched glory! (Ben suggests that I “try to pull off the same trick.” I’ll do my best, man.)

Here’s a link if you’d like to visualize where your tax dollars are going.

My time is otherwise occupied by finding a place to live in Albuquerque this summer, finding a dog-friendly place to live near Stanford next fall, finding a brilliant research topic, and reading scientific papers like it’s my job. Which, to some degree, it is.

This weekend I’ll be backpacking on The Lost Coast, a stretch of untouched coastline in Northern California. It should be cold, windy, rainy, and absolutely gorgeous. Don’t even act like you think I won’t take pictures. That’s just crazy.

Last night, the intrepid Dave Balint placed upon me a weighty burden: to save the boobies.

“If there’s anyway it you could work it into your site, it would be great if you could post a link to my Avon Breast Cancer Fundraising endeavor.”

Despite the name of the Boston event, I am reasonably confident that the Walk’s purpose is set against breast cancer, rather that for it as the name might suggest. Dave is the one on the left in the boat, snarling like a wild beast. The others I can only conclude are his ninja bodyguards of the Hoodie Clan. I don’t know why they are in a boat but I can assure you that cancer is displeased.

I know many of you are still in Boston, and I encourage you to support Dave by donating, volunteering, or beating up cancer if you should happen upon it in a side alley on a dusky eve. Those of you not in Boston should donate, because it is both a socially acceptable way to show your support for breasts (pun intended), and a great opportunity to get silly names to appear on Dave’s Fundraising Honor Roll. Seize it.

Anna! Anna anna anna:

• Anna annabella, anna anna.

• Anna? Anna anna anna.
• Anna-face, anna.

Anna anna anna, anna anna, anna anna anna. Anna anna; anna annaaaaaaa!

There, now are you two happy? Sheesh.

(Thanks, Daniel.)

Road Trip, Day 0: One Body Short
(Holliston, MA to Philadelphia, PA)

I packed my RSX with about as much as I could while still leaving room for Colin’s stuff. The freshly washed and waxed car looked so nice that I was reluctant to take it anywhere. By next week, I knew, it would be blemished by dust, tar, and the guts of a thousand bugs. On 15 South I noticed a bright yellow Porsche with New Jersey plates; I followed him through past Camden. In Philly I went shopping for supplies with Colin and Heather. We had dinner with Sean and Kelly, and then I said goodbye to them, possibly for a while.

Cumulative trip mileage: 313.2 miles.

Road Trip, Day 1: Driving a Fine Line
(Philadelphia, PA to Meadville, PA)

Colin and I left around 8 AM, heading west across Pennsylvania. There wasn’t much of interest to speak of, aside from a trucking company that proclaims, “We drive a fine line.” At 9:40 AM we took an emergency pull-off. Then we stopped at a rest stop. In Meadville we met up with Jaime, who showed us Allegheny campus and his frat house. We met some of Jaime’s friends, got some dinner, and watched Batman Begins, which I had not seen. We had a fun time at his place, and it was good to see him again.

Cumulative trip mileage: 689 miles.

Road Trip, Day 2: Getting Cornier
(Meadville, PA to Chicago, IL)

I had been told many times that the trip across the United States would consist largely of passing by thousands and thousands of fields of corn. As Colin and I passed through Indiana and Ohio, the trees and the towns were slowly replaced by exactly that: corn. And just as the scenery became endless stalks, so did our jokes devolve into corny puns. I should say, cornier. The I-90 toll ticket indicated our exit cost as “N/A,” so we made up what the fee might be other than a dollar value, including answering a riddle. When my cell phone (Verizon) had no signal and Colin’s had full service, he declared, “All I have to say is, Cingular for the win!” When the roles were reversed, and I proclaimed the same, he was unamused. In addition to an increase in corn, the signs became more, shall we say, “X-treme.” There was one sign with a football player whose eyes glowed bright green and proclaimed, “The Spirit Lives!” What were they advertising? A bookstore.

On entering Chicago, we had a good laugh at a sign that read, “4 Minutes to Circle.” Our evening in Chicago with Carl was lots of fun. He took us on a walking tour of several parts of Chicago, including his office in the Chicago Board of Trade (an intimidating building). Our dinner was colored by a fun sangria/margeurita mixed drink and a wall inscription that indicated the place had “cabrito muy sabroso.” None of us spoke Spanish, but the goat head mounted below the words should have been a hint. Unfortunately, they were out of goat that night, so I had to take their word on the tastiness of the dish.

Cumulative trip milage: 1,167 miles.

Road Trip, Day 3: Somewhere in Middle America
(Chicago, IL to Omaha, NE)

“Danish Windmill,” Colin read off a passing sign, “Doesn’t that sound like one of those weird sexual things?” So began our trip to Omaha. It wasn’t much to speak of, aside from more corn and the unfortunately-named Kum & Go. (Trip note: 12:13 PM – Patience with Colin decreasing. Scanning cornfields for replacement companion.) Arriving in Omaha, we were shocked to see an honest-to-God skyline. We stayed with Melissa Beckmann, who is just starting medical school at Creighton in Omaha. She’s living in a nice little house with two other girls and her dog, Faith. We went out to a local restaurant and brewery, where I had some genuine Omaha steak and a beer sampler. Now, I’ve had beer samplers before; at John Harvard’s, for example, they’ve got a 5 beer sampler that’s quite fun. So when the menu said 9 samples, and the actual sampler turned out to be eleven four-ounce samples, I was a bit surprised. Forty-four ounces later, I was happily chatting it up with Colin, Melissa, and Ali (one of her roomies). I enjoyed playing with Faith. She would bite down on a knotted rope, and I would try to take it from her. She mostly won. Even when she lost, I sometimes whacked myself in the eye with the suddenly-released rope. A sad day for me. Omaha was a nice city, but it was time for us to go. In the dark of early morning, Colin and I stole out of her apartment and got back on the highway. Next stop, Salt Lake City. Almost 1,000 miles away.

Cumulative trip milage: 1,644.2 miles.

Road Trip, Day 4: Good Morning Salt Lake
(Omaha, NE to Salt Lake City, UT)

9:25 AM – Entered Mountain Time Zone.
8:26 AM – Made time travel jokes.

A thousand miles doesn’t seem nearly as far when you travel at 90 mph for a good bulk of the time. Near western Nebraska the corn began to fade away and was replaced by emptiness and hills. Wyoming was more mountainous, still, with the occasional cowboy riding his horse near the road.

12:46 PM – Did not hit 123 mph. We swear.

We checked into the Peery hotel in Salt Lake. Joe, the bellhop, was a class act and helped us pick places to eat and drink. A seafood specialty place served us some quality calamari, and I had a delicious bass, I mean, trout. Trout always reminds me of a Boy Scout fishing trip with my dad. I spent all day trying to catch a fish before finally getting a single trout. Mom cooked it up; it remains, in my mind, the best fish I’ve ever had. At a nearby brew pub, we tried some local microbrews and watched bits of World Series poker on TV.

Before sunrise, we got up and went for breakfast in town. We ate at “Utah’s oldest and most famous restaurant.” Both Colin and I were clad in our shorts, sandals, and t-shirts, even though it was clearly too cold for such clothing. In Omaha it was in the 90s, and what did we know about Utah weather? At any rate, a newscaster for the local news and his cameraman were setting up a shot just as we walked by. He beckoned to us, but we just kept walking, because it was unclear what he wanted. The broadcast started: “It’s a chilly morning here in Salt Lake, with winter quickly approaching. But some people just aren’t ready to let the summer go…” The camera swung toward Colin and me. I waved at the people of Salt Lake City. Then we had breakfast and veered north, toward Idaho.

Cumulative trip milage: 2,578.6 miles.

Road Trip, Day 5: Volcanos and Squirrel Hunting
(Salt Lake City, UT to Boise, ID)

With respect to seeing things along the drive to Boise, today would stand as the second most interesting leg. Ironically, our trip journal contains only a handful of comments, one of which was, “Idaho is boring.” We drove north from Salt Lake to Arco, Idaho. If you’ve never heard of Arco, that’s probably because you aren’t one of the ~500 people who live there (or within a 50 mile radius). The only other possible reason to have heard of Arco was that it was the first town to be powered by nuclear energy; the nuclear plant stands even today, a small building a dozen miles outside the town. Although I imagine the people of Arco don’t think of it this way, I suspect they were chosen as the first site of consumer nuclear power in part because, in the event of a nuclear meltdown, no one but the Arcoans would be affected, and no one else would even stumble across this part of Idaho for years. I exaggerate a bit, but Arco was small. We stopped there for lunch at Pickle’s Place, where flies buzzed around our heads. One man sat with a fork in one hand and a fly swatter in the other. Unlike Joe the Bellhop, this was not classy.

Shortly thereafter we went to Craters of the Moon National Monument (pictures forthcoming). CotM is a huge lava field, complete with lava flows, huge volcanic rocks, caves, and tunnels. We spent several hours there, including some time climbing through Indian Tunnel, where lava once flowed beneath the surface. I climbed to the top of some huge volcanic mound, from which I could see the expanse of the park: an enormous black stain in the middle of the empty vastness of Idaho.

For a time, we amused ourselves by making jokes about the road signs. “Game Crossing” -> “look out, Monopoly!” or “Watch for Stock” -> “look out, the NASDAQ!” You shouldn’t be surprised by how quickly that got old. Most of our journey across Idaho took place on the Oregon Trail. As a fan of the game, I was excited to see many of the landmarks I remember: Snake River, Glenn’s Ferry Crossing, and (much later) the Dalles.

Colin got typhoid. Delayed 3 days.

Boise felt very much like a college town. We ate and had drinks at a distillery. They made their own gin, vodka, and rum, of which I tried each in a different drink. It was a pleasant evening of talking politics and chatting with our friendly waitress. We were surprised to learn that at this restaurant in Idaho, home of the potato, the mashed potatoes were “terrible.”

We attempted to ford the river in my RSX. Twelve pieces of clothing and 1,295 lbs of food were lost.

Cumulative trip milage: 3,029.8 miles.

Road Trip, Day 6: Gaaheehhhht-ahoohhhhhh
(Boise, ID to Seattle, WA)

That would be roughly my transcription of the pronunciation of “ghetto” I used to describe the hotel where Colin and I spent the night in Seattle. Though conveniently placed to Pike Place Market and certainly an order of magnitude cheaper than anything else in the area, both the hotel and the parking garage across the street smacked of sketchiness. For example, as one gentleman was checking in, the hotel staff decided he appeared like the type of person who might need to be reminded of their no-guest policy; we referred to it as the No Whores Policy.

We wandered the Market on the way to Elliott’s Oyster House, where I had the best oysters I can remember. The recommendation was Yong-Hwa’s, and we were grateful for it. We also had some wine from Y-H’s hometown of Woodinville, WA. After dinner, we stopped at a local brewery and talked about the intricacies of life and love, hopes for the future, as well as about booty and hitting it. The beers were hoppier than I prefer, a realization that accompanied the realization that I am a beer snob.

Seattle seemed like a nice city, and it was pleasant to eat breakfast while watching the sun rise, as people rushed about to set up the Market for the day. We ate at a place where they filmed a scene from Sleepless in Seattle. Of course, in true Seattle form, it rained.

Cumulative trip milage: 3,557.9 miles.

Road Trip, Day 7: The Pacific
(Seattle, WA to Ukiah, CA)

After driving south through Washington, we turned west and drove through northern Oregon until we hit water. The event was nothing short of incredible. The winding road we took to reach Rt. 101 suddenly opened up. We found ourselves driving along cliffs overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Colin got out to take pictures at one of the stops. When he returned to the car, he sat down, turned to me, and said, “Wow. That shit is fucking retarded.” He said it with such reverence and sincerity, it almost sounded profound.

We realized, some ways down the Oregon coast, that we were making progress far more slowly than we needed to. In an impromptu decision, we turned back inland to get on I-5, which we followed until 2 AM. This brought us all the way to Ukiah, CA: the edge of California Wine Country. We stumbled into the Holiday Inn Express and inquired about a room. Left with no choice, Colin and I slept together on a King-sized bed. Colin was hoping for a Twin. (But Mary-Kate was out of town. I’ll stop.)

Road Trip, Day 8: Drinking in the Morning
(Ukiah, CA to Portola Valley, CA)

We started drinking around 10 AM, when the first wineries in Mendocino along Rt. 128 began opening for tastings. The weather was superb, and we drove slowly from one vineyard to the next, tasting their wines. Navarro Vineyards gave us a tour of their facilities, and we got to see the magic behind making wine. I can’t say it was magical, but it was very cool. I’ll let the pictures (coming soon) tell the story. We went to four vineyards in all, which was about all I could reasonably handle and still drive safely. On the way back out to the coast, we passed through a forest of towering redwoods. Then, we hit Rt. 1.

For those who’ve never driven Rt. 1 in California, north of San Francisco, imagine a winding road on the edge of a very high cliff that overlooks spectacular rock formations and beaches and the mighty Pacific. Then, imagine me driving those roads after 30-something sips of wine, keeping in mind that I am acrophobic. Within the first few seconds of driving this road, California won our prestigious Most Gorgeous State, At Least of the Ones on this Road Trip award. We followed the road all the way to San Francisco, over the Golden Gate Bridge, and into the heart of the city. We ate at a fancy restaurant called Moose’s, where they had live jazz music by a pianist and trumpeter. Colin insists there was a mute on his horn, but I could still hear it. I had some of the most tender pork I’ve ever tasted.

We left the city and arrived at my aunt and uncle’s house in Portola Valley, where they kindly allowed us to spend the night. They live just a short hop from Palo Alto. It marked the end of our travels.

FINAL Cumulative Trip Milage: 4,712.1 miles!

Then Colin flew home and I moved into my apartment in Palo Alto and started life as a Ph.D. student at Stanford… but that’s another story.