Mike is asleep.  Perusing a new French cookbook I bought at the General Store in downtown Paso Robles, I read about the Medoc and the joy of cooking mushrooms in the fall, asparagus in the spring, tarts weighted down with lush apricots in summer and warming stews in winter.  I discover the joy of finding fresh cepes by the side of the road and I think I’d like to visit this region in France and maybe just maybe someday it will happen.  But I look at the clock and think about tomorrow and know I must make a decision.  I pick up my phone and Google Hearst Castle and look at the tours and the times, make a decision–and click. I don’t believe in stressing myself, so I book our tour for 11 o’clock. 

We have coffee and toast with sweet orange marmalade then at 9:30 a.m. we make our way down to the car and head once again toward the sea. I have been to the Hearst Castle twice before and wonder at my need to return.  But I remember the lush grounds, the magnificent views, and the rolling green hills that touch the sea and know my silent question has its answer.

The Castle Tour

Traveling in offseason is a good thing.  The crowds are non-existent.  We sip hot coffee, waiting for the tour bus to depart.  With our bargain-price $25 ticket we get the tour of our choice, the ability to roam the grounds of the castle at will, and a movie detailing the history of Hearst and his castle.  Three hours of entertainment.  A bargain at twice the price.

I learn that Hearst always intended this place to be a museum, bringing Europe to those who are unable to travel abroad.  It is the religious art of Spain and Italy and the pottery of Greece, and the sarcophagi of Pisa and I am transported back to sunny days in Italy.  And I want more.

I admit to missing home—we’ve been gone too long. But being here makes me wish to continue the journey, exploring all the corners of the world available to our limitations of time and budget. The beauty and the grandeur of it all are beyond belief. I am continuously overwhelmed, and Michael is tired of hearing me say, “I love…” and tells me it loses all meaning, but I can’t think of other words to express how I feel. So I love.

A picture is worth a thousand words—even if the pictures are taken in low light without a flash—even if they are only representative of a fraction of a percent of the whole.  They are my memories and my enticement to continue the journey.