Day 7 – In Lake Tahoe
N38º 56.544' W119º 57.186'
Spending Canada Day in Lake Tahoe (or anywhere in the United States, for that matter) is an interesting exercise in cognitive dissonance and cultural alienation. Three days before the 4th of July, and the countryside already abounds with red, white and blue bunting and flags flap from just about any place you could think to hang one. The Americans take their national holiday very, very seriously. Where Canadians, by contrast, are a far more modest lot. Is this a positive attribute, or a failing in our national character? Damn it all, it’s a good thing to be a Canadian. We do many things very, very well and where we screw up we tend to be willing to admit it and work hard to recover and learn from the experience. It shouldn’t be a bad thing to celebrate that, but it would appear the whole idea clashes with our cultural values of self-effacing modesty.
Last night, Dianne and I had dinner at a cosy little place (with the operative word being ‘little’) called Café Fiore, right around the corner from the inn. How close to right around the corner it really was didn’t sink in until we went there, because — late as we were getting out the door for our 8:30 reservation — we elected to drive. All of half of a block. You can see the driveway of the inn from the restaurant. To add insult to injury, our table wasn’t even ready, and wouldn’t be for close to another 30 minutes.
In order to pass the time, we were sent around the corner to the restaurant next door (a remarkably friendly gesture) to have a drink in the lounge. When our martinis arrived, Dianne’s comment was that these were the closest she’s ever had in a restaurant to the martinis that she gets at home. I’m gonna take that as a compliment.
Dinner, when we got there, was fabulous. For being a small restaurant, they have an amazingly expansive menu of Italian food. Dianne’s concern before we left was that too many restaurants only do beef, pork and more exotic game, and you tend not to see chicken as a feature. She’s also been craving pasta for about three days. All of this led me to gleefully point out the many, many options featuring pollo, which got me a withering look and an accusation that I don’t really love her, because if I did then I wouldn’t make fun of her. Which in no way stopped her short list of three possible menu items from all including chicken. Seemed reasonable, and I was lining up for some swordfish and looking for a nice bottle of white on the wine list when she went and chose a dish that was a) not on her short list and b) not in any way compatible with white wine. I believe that her direct quote was that she was being “gleefully defiant.”
The Dijon-crusted lamb that I wound up choosing was still exquisite, however, as were the gorgonzola and crab-stuffed ravioli that I had as an appetizer. Dianne had a bocconcini pasta with a marsala sauce that she thoroughly enjoyed (even if it didn’t have chicken). Some prosecco to start, a nice glass of Nickel & Nickel chardonnay with the appetizer and a bottle of barbera with dinner, and we were truly happy campers. Then we proceeded to drive around the block back to the inn, taking the long way so as not to look as truly pathetic as we were.
Note to the engineers: Good motorcycling roads look like this.
Today was a day off, an opportunity to unwind, enjoy the sites of Lake Tahoe, and to savour the experience of not having to actually drive anywhere. To celebrate this happy occasion, we consulted on our plans over breakfast and decided… to go for a drive around Lake Tahoe. This is something like 100 miles in all, and took about four hours, at least the way we did it. This included stops for coffee, for shopping, for site-seeing and for pulling over the car at pretty much every opportune place in order to take pictures.
Lake Tahoe. Water and mountains, all in one happy package.
Back to the inn at around mid-afternoon, we had a light snack to tide us over until dinner. I got the last of my work done, and Dianne had a nap. Another evening in Lake Tahoe, and we’ll head to Carmel in the morning.
Wait for Baby, you sumbitches! Wait for Baby!