It's 75 degrees in Sonoma County, California, and your yoga class has just finished practicing on a wooden deck overlooking a 108-acre farm. The sun slowly dips into the ocean in the distance. The aroma of wood smoke is in the air, luring you through the herb garden to a patio where a crackling outdoor pizza oven awaits, its brick hearth just the right temperature.
Conquer the Art of Really Getting Away
Ahoy, Food Lovers!
San Francisco Magazine
Food for Life
Retreat & Reinvigorate
Where bubbly sparkles all the time
Salute the Sun
OZZY IS GIVING ME ATTITUDE—bumping against my pack, nosing ahead, blowing his semisweet-fermented breath in my face. I nudge him on the chest to keep him behind me as I inch down the steep sandstone, but he clearly has personal-space issues. I chose Ozzy . . .
Growing up, I was The One Who Could Not Sing. My older sister and brother, on the other hand, were routinely cast in musicals and chosen for high school Madrigals (the “Glee”-like choir reserved for the cream of the teen vocal crop). At Christmas, my . . .
My best friend and I rarely call each other. Not because we don’t enjoy talking; we just prefer to catch up in person, ideally over frosty drinks in a foreign land. But before our recent trip to Nicaragua, I texted her, “Are we taking backpacks or rolling . . .
“What’s going on?” Dan asked, smiling. He nodded at my feet, which tapped to the beat of zero music. My hands were in constant motion, too—fidgeting with my phone, flipping through the in-flight magazine, rustling in my purse, playing with the barf . . .
I have a picture of the Pont Neuf on a wall in my apartment, but I know that Paris is really on the closet shelf, in the box next to the sleeping bag, with the rest of my diaries.” –Thomas Mallon