Alice's Restaurant Almost

RD told me he was taking me to paradise. After 26 years of marriage, I wasn't quite sure how to take that. Should I wait around and see what he was up to? Or run now and read about it in the newspaper?

Turns out he'd found a place that I had never been to. The ironic thing was I had planned to move to Santa Cruz, CA about 35 years ago. Freshly graduated and headed stateside after 3 years in the Middle East and Europe, a couple of girlfriends and I were leaving Germany to settle in California. We were planning on renting a house together while we finished college. While I was visiting family in Texas, they both acquired boyfriends. They assured me it would all work. It did. I moved to Southern California. I realized that not only does RD have a killer smile, but also life had made a big circle and I was once again given an opportunity to explore the central coast.

Stuart and Julianna Fishman, owners of BMW/Yamaha of Santa Cruz County, met us at the airport and tried to warn us about the scenery over dinner. The dinner was Italian with a story. To be a waiter, you had to kill someone. That's the story. I let RD talk me out of interrogating our waiter. We were treated to a fantastic meal and a fantastic waiter, even though my imagination went into hyper mode.

The next morning we climbed aboard a BMW R1100 S and literally headed for the hills. Destination? Alice's restaurant. I couldn't believe my luck. I'd heard the Arlo Guthrie song, "Alice's Restaurant" for years and even him saw him perform it in Austin on my birthday. Though Alice's in Woodside is not the restaurant in Mr. Guthrie's song, it is named after his song. That hit my "life is stranger than" nerve and I could barely control my excitement as we headed for the intersection of Hwy 84 and Skyline.

The parking lot was full of Beemer, Ducati and Yamaha motorcycles lined up like racehorses in the starting gates. Riders roamed from bike to bike, sizing up each other's ponies. We walked the paddock and moved to the food, understanding in an instant the draw for sport touring motorcyclists the world over.

The restaurant surrounded by a canopy of redwoods welcomed us with smells of food and chatter from motorcyclists, bicyclists and hikers. Sunshine peeked through the trees, giving everything a surreal lighting effect while I walked the parameter, snapping way too many pictures. Crisp clean air stung my lungs with every breath. We decided to take advantage of the scenery and eat on the porch. At the end of each wood table a tall space heater kept the tabletop warm.

I admit to half-hearted conversation as I soaked up the site and devoured my plate full of French toast. I couldn't ignore the bicyclists. Their riding outfits were straight out of clothing stores for science fiction stories. I've never seen so many wild colors stretched over the human anatomy. Cartoon characters and super heroes were proudly displayed. The Tasmanian devil was just plain scary. I kept one eye on him through the whole meal. And the helmets? Well, let's just say they matched the outfits.

As we were asking questions of our hosts, I began to look for Vespas. Though I love the Beemers, it's Vespa scooters that make my heart go pitty patt. And the narrow roads were perfect for my little S150 back home. With a full day of riding ahead of us, I excused myself, following the flowered path to the restroom in a separate building. As soon as I locked the door, I let out a squeal. There on the wall was a 1950's print of a smiling woman on her Vespa scooter. I may have spent more time than I thought, jumping up and down confirming, "I knew it!" to absolutely no one. At that moment "Alice" and I bonded hugely.

After brunch, we wound ourselves through mountains and forest like none I've ever seen. They gave the Bavarian mountains some stiff competition. Little towns full of cabins, picturesque storefronts and Victorian architecture all thrown together kept my shutterbug alter ego totally captivated. And between the towns? Twisting, winding ribbon of two -laned asphalt.

At one point, the canopy of redwoods was so thick we were riding in the dark. I couldn't get pictures even with a flash. So I practiced inhaling, searching out all the scents Mother Nature had to share. RD got plenty of thigh hugs and a couple of bear hugs. I was that happy. Just when I thought it couldn't get better than this sweet little bike that floated through every "S" curve, the trees thinned out. As we came out of one long sweeping turn, whitecaps threw themselves against red cliffs right in front of us.

The thigh hug from RD almost knocked me backwards. Or maybe it was being slapped by sunshine on the Pacific Ocean. At any rate, I understood his sign language. With one hug he was saying, "I told you I was taking you to paradise." He had delivered. I promised myself I would write a travel story to match his gift. I began sketching the scenes in my head. It would fall into place perfectly, as soon as, I made one little confession to RD a.k.a. my Business Manager.

In all my elation over finding a poster of my kind of bike in the bathroom, I had forgotten one teeny tiny thing. Something no travel writer worth her salt would ever have forgotten. I forgot to actually go inside Alice's Restaurant. "You can get anything you want, at Alice's restaurant." If you remember what it is! Photo Album