and who knows if it made all the difference?

Several years ago, my friend Robert and I were among 200 winners of free round trip tickets from New York to Las Vegas. We stayed in a cheap fleabag hotel and blew all of our money on shows (two Cirque du Soleil and one revue of semi-naked men who were a notch below the Chippendales) and a sports car (upgraded, unexpectedly, from an economy size), which we drove first into Utah and then on empty across the Mojave Desert en route to California. Robert was the ultimate traveling companion. He was a low-needs kind of guy and he was adaptable to any idea I had. Drive 600 miles in a day AND enjoy all the sights? Sure! He was all for it and he could do it. Robert was from a small town in New Jersey and was thrilled to see absolutely every carved wood bear, every jutting rock cliff perched along the coastline, and every tourist trap that smacked of kitsch between Portland and Mexico. We marveled at every bit of the Pacific Coast Highway and he used his disposable camera to take pictures through the window of our speeding car. We stopped off in Los Angeles for his friend's wedding, kept heading south, where we rode a ferris wheel at the edge of the sea, and I translated as the goose bumps popped out on his arms and sweat beaded his brow when we passed through machine-gun guarded checkpoints in the mountains south of the border. I was stunned by the incredible beauty of this drive and since then, I've been talking with Francisco about it. "We must drive the Pacific Coast Highway," I insisted, sure that he'd love it as much as I had.

I saw an opportunity to make this trip a reality when we crossed the border from Tijuana to San Diego, where we picked up a rental car that we planned to drive to San Francisco in the course of a few days. I envisioned us stopping off for a leisurely tasting at any number of wineries, pulling over at vista points for photos, and ending up, on our anniversary, at some fabulously impressive and romantic restaurant. But memories of a place are funny, and so are our expectations. Nothing quite seemed the same, except for a short stretch long after Oxnard and ending just past Big Sur. We always got a late start, which meant we drove the best parts in the dark or, when I was driving, he'd fall asleep. As I navigated the darkening and rain-slick mountain road our last night in California, Francisco shook out the map and said, "Uh, maybe we should cross over to the interstate now?"

And we did. As we pulled into a parking space on the corner of King and 4th in San Francisco, my city-loving husband sprung back to life. We had dinner at an Italian restaurant in North Beach, talked with a Venezuelan couple about politics, and then met Ross, Matador's co-founder, for wine and good conversation at his home. As we drove to our hotel, I realized that taking the road less traveled is not always the best choice. For Francisco, and often, for me, the road lined with sidewalks and by soaring buildings and bridges, populated with the life of humanity, is the best scenery and the best path of all .