California

The hills were verdant.  Like something out of East of Eden.  Rolling and lush, speckled here and there with cheery mustard plants.  Calla lillies grew in the ditches.  Camelia blossoms weighted down their branches and oranges hung heavy on the bough.

California.  Even in the pouring rain, its beauty could not be dampened.

Of course, the day we held reign, the sun sparkled like a prism and the sky seemed to yawn out before us, endless in its blue perfection.  We dressed up, as we are wont to do.  Southern Ladies.  We both wore skirts, my mother and I.  Our first stop on our vineyard tour was Jordan.  Even the ripe sonoma countryside could not prepare us for the beauty of Jordan; a french villa set in the heart of the Russian River Valley.  Live oaks bent their gnarled branches down to the immaculately trimmed lawn.  In the distance, hill after hill of vines and mustard.  We felt transported, plucked and placed in Burgundy.  The tasting itself was as much a culinary treat as one for an oenophile.  My mother gushed, overwhelmed by the luxury.

California does that to me... overwhelms my senses.  I want to forget time and place and succumb to the environment, embrace the different clime, the vibe.  I feel brazen in California.  I wear my hair parted on the opposite side, use eyeliner and unbutton my blouse a little lower.

As the temperatures varies here, and the sun darts behind the omnipresent spring clouds, I capitulate and dream, wish, wonder... California, I hear your Siren call.