One

I have been warned that San Francisco in summer means one thing: fog. As I head out of San Francisco International Airport, though, the sun is shining. But as I reach San Francisco proper, the tops of the skyscrapers are already hidden in clouds and so is the famous Golden Gate Bridge. My purpose for being here is to drive along the Pacific north and then, somehow, back south again. The only plan I have so far is to cross into Marine county just north of the bridge, find somewhere to spend the night, do some shopping for supplies and then head out to explore the area until nightfall.

I check in at the first motel I can find along the freeway. After that I drive randomly through the sourrounding hills—the advantage of lodging directly by the freeway is that you will always find home somehow. In Corte Madera I find a supermarket where I fill the trunk of my car with all the essentials: cookies and grapes, water and beer. I also buy some bread and cheese with the intention to dine somewhere along the beach. But, I forget the fog. And not only fog, there is also quite some wind. So I drive back to the motel instead and feast there. The remote control is broken and forces me to stay on one TV channel. Makes American TV even more unbearable.

I wake up the next morning with a terrible headache. In the vague hope that it may go away in the course of the morning, I head out after breakfast. Which, by the way, confirms my earlier fear that ‘continental breakfast’ means the French, not German part of the continent (assuming the continent in question is Europe at all). And the complimentary breakfast of your average Motel means French with a terrible headache.

When I try to open the trunk of my car, it suddenly starts honking and blinking. I close the trunk, lock the doors, unlock the doors, start the engine. All to no avail. It just keeps honking. After a while some bystander is annoyed enough to switch from bystanding to helping.

‘Did you hit the panic button?’

Panic button? It turns out that the car’s remote control has a red button in the same shape as the trunk opener but placed on the other side. Still half asleep, I must have confused the buttons without looking. I hit it again, the car falls silent and from somewhere there is a ‘Thank you’ coming.

The bystander must have realized I am not from around so he helpfully adds: ‘It’s for chicks.’

And with that the stupid European sneakes off the motel’s parking lot and onto the freeway. The next exit takes me on California highway number 1, otherwise known as Shoreline Highway, which I intend to follow all the way north. The first few miles are covered in fog again. Only when the road swings a bit more inland do the clouds go away and even the sun comes out. I immediately turn west again towards the now distant clouds. My destination is Point Reyes Lighthouse at the far end of an apparently nameless peninsula. This area is known for its richness in flora and fauna of which I get hardly anything to see because it is also known for its fog.

It is the reason, why the lighthouse must have been quite a nerve-wrecking post. Day after day the furthest the lighthouse keeper could see was his hand at the end of the outstretched arm. Which is bad enough, but back then the fog horn was steam driven and the boiler needed tending to. That horn is still there and going strong, albeit electrically. There is still a four appartments near the light house, probably for some rangers. There is also two million tourists each year. Even today, there is constant coming and going of cars, despite the fact that the lighthouse and its museum are closed. And did I mention the fog?