San Luis Obispo to Paso Robles

Firestone Walker's Reserve Porter Ice Cream Float, Paso Robles, California

You can find happiness almost anywhere along the Central Coast. Hang a left on CA-1 out of San Luis Obispo to get to Morro Bay and its famous rock; tiny Cayucos; and Cambria, gateway to Hearst Castle. Or stay further inland on US-101 for Atascadero, Templeton, and Paso Robles.

Sandra and I take the inland route. Last time we came this way, two months earlier to give a talk and sign books in the Bay Area, we stopped at Atascadero.

We dined at a cozy, family-run Thai restaurant (the unfortunately named but delicious Thai-riffic), enjoyed a Stagetown Stout from nearby Figueroa Mountain Brewing Company back at the hotel, and had Stumptown Roasters Peru Cecovasa with breakfast in the morning at Bru Coffeehouse before continuing north.

Actress Minnie Driver lives near Atascadero. Former big-league pitcher Chuck Estrada attended high school there. If you like quiet and understated, it's a cool place to spend the night.

We drive past and continue to Paso Robles, where we've stayed many times: Downtown, a short walk from the farmer's market and several fine restaurants; near the freeway at a motel filled with ATV-riding, bad-beer-drinking, loud-noise-making folks.

Tonight our destination is at the very north end, off CA-46. It's an odd enough location that I'm convinced I've made a wrong turn somewhere along the way.

CA-46 is familiar. Go west and you end up near Cambria. Go east and you run into CA-41 at Cholame, where James Dean was killed in a car accident in 1955 at age 24. There is a humble plaque beneath a tree near the location.

We visited it once, years ago, and then drove back along Bitterwater Road, which took us through some remote areas. Maybe not as remote as along CA-247 between Lucerne Valley and Barstow–there was the occasional farmhouse–but relatively untouched by outsiders.

It was a gorgeous country drive until we were attacked by pebbles. With faces. Bugs, actually. Thousands of them, piling up on the windshield.

Their wings continued to flap because of the car's movement, which made them look alive. Running the wipers didn't help. The dead bugs just kept staring.

I don't want to run into bugs again. Just as I'm about to turn around, the hotel appears. Next to a winery.

Oh, it's one of those places. I saw that in a movie once.

We check in, and there is a reception. Free wine? Okay.

Smiling people in pastel sweaters mill about, exchanging tales of the day's winery conquests. We are the youngest people here. We are not young.

The woman serving the wine greets us.

“Did you visit any wineries today?”

“No, we just got in.”

“Are you visiting any tomorrow?”

“No, we're leaving early.”

Awkward silence. We have come for the beer, back where the actual town is. We keep this to ourselves and smile, like everyone else does.

“Would you like red or white?”

“Red.”

Sandra orders the white, and we sip while dodging the smiling sweater people. After a brief rest, we head to Firestone Walker Brewing Company, in an industrial park off US-101.

The place is packed. Without reservations it's an hour wait. Or you can sit at a “common table” and share a meal with strangers right away.

Americans hate doing this, but we are hungry and gladly subject others to our eating habits. The 20-seat table is three-quarters full when we arrive. There is a merry din.

Within minutes we are the only ones there. Sandra and I are dining together, by ourselves, at a table built for a king. Fish and chips, washed down with a pint of Pale 31. This should happen more often.

We finish the meal with a beer float. Remember the beer milkshake from Steinbeck's Cannery Row, set just up the road in Monterey? This is like that: A giant glass of Reserve Porter over vanilla ice cream, as satisfying as the day itself.

The evening draws to a close, and we ponder tomorrow's drive into points unknown. Who knows what surprises it will bring?

Santa Barbara to San Luis Obispo

Mission San Luis Obispo de Tolosa, San Luis Obispo, California

We are searching for something sweet to eat. This is kept as vague as possible, to maximize our options.

The main drag in San Luis Obispo is Higuera Street, which always calls to mind Teddy Higuera, although that is probably just me. The street is named after a local family, not the left-handed pitcher from the late-'80s/early-'90s. This is where we are headed.

I don't think of Robin Ventura when I'm in Ventura, although I do think of former Padres minor-leaguer Paul McAnulty when I'm in Oxnard because that's where he's from and he's an old favorite of mine from his days playing at Lake Elsinore.

While the mind is busy drifting, we reach the heart of San Luis Obispo. Another mission-turned-college town, it is smaller (around 45,000 residents as of 2010) than Santa Barbara, its neighbor 100 miles to the south.

The baseball connection runs deep. Hall of Fame shortstop Ozzie Smith attended Cal Poly SLO. So did former big-league pitcher and current San Francisco Giants broadcaster Mike Krukow, who later opened a restaurant here.

Others who have called San Luis Obispo home include Jon Anderson of Yes, Peter Buck of R.E.M., and Jack Kerouac (Southern Pacific Railroad brakeman, writer, and baseball fan). But these are relatively recent developments in local history.

The 1772 on the front of Mission San Luis Obispo de Tolosa, pictured above, represents the year Father Junipero Serra founded the mission and the town. The mission remains active today, offering daily Catholic mass.

The town also remains active. It is easy to get lost in its shops, as we do while visiting our usual haunts–Phoenix Books (where I once bought an old Baseball America Almanac), Boo-Boo Records, Tom's Toys.

Tom's is to blame for a deck of tarot cards based on the national pastime–Five of Bats, Ace of Gloves, the unfortunately named Manager of Balls–that still sits on a bookshelf back home. The cards serve as an ineffective reminder that just because you can buy something doesn't mean you should. They also trigger fond memories of San Luis Obispo, so the purchase wasn't all bad.

One such memory is that of a colossal farmers' market that engulfs downtown every Thursday night. There are worse ways to spend a summer evening than sitting on a curb, wolfing ribs slathered in barbecue sauce, listening to music and the chatter of thousands. We miss it this time.

What we don't miss is a place on Nipomo called Batch. It specializes in homemade ice cream sandwiches built to spec. They are sweet and oozy and utterly unnecessary. One is plenty for both of us.

We leave town satisfied and continue north. The forecast ahead is promising: Mostly sunny, with a 100 percent chance of beer.