Carmel-by-the-sea (official name) is a beach town located about 40 miles south of San Francisco on the California coast. It’s a tourist town who’s main attractions are food, shopping, dog-friendliness and beautiful views of the ocean. It has a history as an artists enclave, which is why it remains so aesthetically pleasant today, although I suspect that very few artists can afford to live there at this point in time.
As has become a tradition in the Spring, Ben and I drive North to meet his parents, who drive South from Oregon and we hang out together for about three days. We picked Carmel because the hotel they wanted to stay in in Big Sur was completely booked, and there were actually cheaper accommodations at the Carmel Wayfarer Inn. The reviews seemed to all agree that it was pleasant, centrally located and cozy-if a little shabby. Which is basically how we roll all the time, and it was a great spot for us. I recommend it to my friends since I know you guys aren’t Princesses who are going to quibble over a chip in the plaster here and there.
The first day of vacation was mostly driving through California farmland. We ate dinner at A W Shucks Oyster Bar. It was OK. Their bloody marys came highly recommended, so I got one and asked for it to be mild. I felt like I was drinking a cup full of Cajun seasoning. I even asked for some extra tomato juice to pour in there and soften it out, to no avail. Ben’s dad liked it though, so the thing wasn’t a total waste. Their rose clam chowder was awesome, but their fish and chips seemed bland, as well as their tarter sauce, which relied heavily on dill with few other spices.
As for the company, it was of course excellent. Ben’s parents are as awesome as he is. The only issue I have is that I am consistently reminded of how negative I am when I hang out with them. They’re like a pair of gnomes, cheerful and optimistic Pacific-Northwest woods dwellers and I’m a foul mouthed city person here to talk about how we’re all fucked and everything sucks. Also that all people are incompetent dicks. Oscar the Grouch would be my spirit animal if he could grow some fucking balls.
Anyway, pictures follow.