The last time I went away in January was in 2005 for an overnight camping-in-the-snow experience. Yep. You read that correctly. It was awesome.
So going anywhere in January, much less to California for a long weekend, is out of character for me. But that’s what I’m doing. Girl from the East and I are tagging along with the husband to Los Angeles. We have no real plan. That’s OK. I don’t like vacations or even weekend junkets to be too structured. Daily life is structured to death. I’m just going with an open mind, my camera, and of course my computer. I’m guessing we’ll marvel at all things California, which is pretty much as un-Michigan as you can get.
Here is an endless palette of gray framed in cold and bare branches. Not that I dislike these things. I consider winter to be a nesting season, a time to hunker down and deal with the stuff of life. But a body grows accustomed to certain things: heavy sweaters, pale skin, lack of vitamin D, soup three times a day, and the endless darkness. A body just might freak out if it has to switch to a lighter less-forgiving fabric, sunlight, and those big palm trees that soar above the pavement. Did I mention sunshine?
If you see a pale woman reluctantly baring skin, any skin at all, squinting against the overwhelming glare of that big fireball in the sky, and looking like Betty Elms/Diane Selwyn in “Mulholland Drive,” it’ll be me.