The view from my balcony last weekend. I heard the breeze, a barred owl hooting, chickens in the distance (probably on the owl’s dinner menu), and the sea.

The kid sat on her mama’s shoulders, tiny fists buried in the woman’s long hair. She tugged gently on a lefthand lock and instantly, the woman turned 90 degrees down an intersecting path, and laughing.

They reminded me of one of my favorite animations, Ratatouille, where Remy and Linguini discover a hair-pulling trick for becoming a masterchef (go see the movie to figure out that one).

Apparently I was right: “I am the CHEF!” bellowed the girl as they sped toward me.

Mama obviously had her hands full securing her little masterchef, so I held the restaurant door open.

“Thank you,” she said, as she cantered inside. The kid gave me an appraising look, up and down. “I can cook you a GOOD dinner?” she offered.

“I appreciate that,” I said, holding up my takeout boxes, “But I already have my dinner.”

An old tree trunk standing like a pair of worn jeans, one leg strangled by an opportunistic tree. By the end of an exhausting week, I knew how it felt.

Kid gave me a dubious look, shook her head, and tugged on those brunette reins. “GO PLEASE!!!!” They galloped into a hall marked “Private: Wedding rehearsal,” and disappeared.

Shoulda accepted my tiny chef’s offer. I panted up 110 very steep stairs to unbox dinner and made a discovery:  Gorgeously seaside restaurants should NOT serve greasy, fallapart burgers with iffy clam chowder. (And THAT appeared to be the best thing on a very limited menu, but after those stairs I was too pooped to hike to the car and find something else)

Sigh.

No matter: I had crisp apples, tart plums, and a barred owl singing in the tree outside my room. I sat basking in balcony sunshine, and watched the sea rise and fall with the wind.

I was here to do absolutely nothing and–so far–succeeding.

I’d ended the week thinking about all the stuff left on my to-do lists: Build new taxonomy associative relationships, clean the house, disambiguate a couple thousand terms, prepare a monthly report, call the vet, make enough food for the week, call and set up maybe ten different things, get ready for the dentist to extract (!) yet another tooth, build a couple of websites, replace the stuff in the treat drawer (don’t ask), get everything ready for some minor surgery my mom’s having next week, make sure I’m all set to be my niece’s wedding photographer, measure a tall window for Carol’s stained glass, fix the walls the absolutely awful substitute painter messed up, buy a bloody DRESS for the wedding, work on finances, train the dog not to bark, reorganize my studio and build a new laptop desk…

Oregon coastline on a breezy summer day.

Oh, and make art for the open studio show in the fall.

“You know you have unlimited vacation,” said my boss reproachfully, “But you hardly ever take a day off. Why don’t you USE some of that time to relax?”

(this is only one reason I really do love my boss)

By last Friday I could feel my brain yammering apart at the seams; I was staring at spreadsheets that no longer made sense, listening to complaints that started, “You always…,” and “You never…,” and “You’re wrong…” and bogging down in dust clouds and dog hair.

Nope.

Went upstairs, crammed clothes into a carryall that I bundled into Chiquitita, and headed for the coast.

Driving a Carrera through misty forests to the sea is a hella good way to unwind. By the time I reached the famously scenic Highway 101, I’d stopped muttering dire imprecations, and was purring right along with the car, craning my neck for a first glimpse of ocean.

There. I sighed happily, pulled over at a viewpoint by the shore and just…took it in.

I don’t know why the sea calms. Maybe it’s the rhythm of the waves, marching to shore in unstoppable cadence. Maybe it’s the sound of surf pounding on rocks, drowning out my inner Karen. Maybe it’s the sight of something so big and oblivious that my problems perish through sheer embarrassment.

The sea was all colors of aquamarine and green, dotted with rocky kelp.

I found myself smiling and nodding in time with the waves.

101 hugs the coastline and Chiquitita meandered along; we stopped occasionally to watch seals on the rocks or giant waves crashing cliffside, sending spray high into the air. It was a bright summer day, just cool enough to be refreshing, and the sea showed its depth in translucent greens and aquas.

Found my hotel tucked away in a seaside forest, wandered through the forest to my room and headed for that balcony. The hotel was built on a seacliff with layers of rooms and walkways below; I chuckled as a wedding party under my balcony argued with a cold-footed bride.

“If I get married I can’t go out with other guys,” she wailed, “How boring is that?”

“Honey, the wedding is TOMORROW, we’ve been planning this for a year, your uncle Chet flew in all the way from London…and you’re just NOW figuring this out?”

“Do you KNOW what this seaside wedding is costing me? Are you out of your #@$)#@ mind?” (I’m guessing that was the father of the bride)

“Sweetie, you know you love him,” someone coaxed, “There are a lot of girls who would love to have him.”

“Me, for instance,” said another.

The voices faded and I never did find out if she went through with it. Good luck, Mr. Groom.

The hotel grounds were gorgeously in full bloom.

The Oregon coast may be one of the most magical places on earth; wild and free, with waves crashing to the shore, mushrooms up in the highlands, and herds of elk stopping by for lunch. It’s hard NOT to relax here.

I strolled gardens and forests, investigated devils’ punchbowls (semi-closed mini-bays where the constrained surf pounds and churns and boils in fury–I think there are three or four in Oregon alone). Talked to folk. People-watched.

Been a long time since I did that. Hanging out, expecting nothing and doing less, is the best way to find stories. I was surprised, watching an old couple rocking on a porch swing, holding hands and smiling, how much I’d missed this.

I stopped off at a couple of galleries, had a great dinner with a soccer team from Belize and the Yucatan Peninsula (I think; their English was about as good as my Spanish). The soccer boys had watched me exit Chiquitita; they eagerly invited me to sit with them and discuss perky yellow sportscars and somebody’s chances at the World Cup.

I was only good at ONE of those topics, since I’m barely aware of domestic sports, let alone international, so I mostly smiled and nodded until the waitress took my order.

“I’ll have the grilled halibut, or…hmmm. Which would you recommend, the halibut or the salmon?”

“Get the prime rib,” she ordered, “You’ll thank me.”

When the waitress says, “Get the prime rib,” you get the prime rib. It was delicious.

The soccer boys were headed north to compete in some tournament or other (I think). They were a little disappointed that bikini-clad girls were conspicuously absent from THESE beaches (scenic beach does not equal SWIMMING beach in Oregon), but enjoying the trip and planning to decimate the competition.

I regretfully declined their offer to trade rides in Chiquitita for a signed soccer ball, refrained from doing the oldfolk “in my younger days I was quite a soccer player myself” routine (in part because that’s a lie; I was just as lousy at soccer as every other sport except badminton), and drove away to athletic handclapping.

Next day, on the way to an art fair, Chiquitita began sputtering weird error messages “Four wheel drive system faulty,” “It may be possible to continue to drive,” and such.

OK, that was scary. I shut her down and googled. The Porsche community said it could be a weak battery (???? we swapped batteries maybe a year ago), could be a wacked-out potentiometer or transfer case servo (whatever the heck those are) or could be a blip that will never reappear after I restart the car.

I put the top down and drove slowly back to the hotel and got ANOTHER error message about the convertible top not fully open.

Sigh. The road to Portland is a hundred miles of mostly mountains and forest, punctuated by only a few gas stations or taverns and spotty mobile phone service. Wonderfully scenic, but not exactly the best place to find a long-distance tow for your too-low-to-be towed baby. Time to head for the barn and get Chiquitita to the doc.

We took the less scenic route home, longer but closer to civilization, and I parked her safely in the garage. Turns out my mechanic is booked until September, and while we wait to find out what’s wrong I’ll ponder Toyotas and Nissans and such. I’ve got a real thing about reliability in my only car. Maybe my bucket list baby has run her course and needs a different home, one that can afford a weekend tinkertoy AND a reliable workhorse.

I sure hope not. We’ll see.