Sonoma, I've got my chips cashed in
by MAUREEN GRABOWSKI
Enjoying your work as a copywriter at a high-profile San Francisco ad agency is all very well, but sometimes you simply need to take an emergency break. Comes a time when you have to recklessly abandon the Mac and use whatever you have in your arsenal to leave Dodge. And that��s when that trusty old friend of the cubically challenged steps in �C the SICK DAY!
My best friend at the agency, Carli, barely put up a fight, and early the next day we left our working hearts in San Francisco, and motored across the Golden Gate Bridge in our getaway car �C my agreeably complicit Chevy Malibu LTZ. We were bound for an appropriately rustic cabin in Sonoma County owned by a friend of mine who, apropos of nothing, was actually a billionaire for a couple of days before the Internet bust.
I felt the techno dust blowing off in the breeze as we worked our way through glorious Northern California to the strains of ��Workingman��s Dead�� blasting forth from the eight-speaker sound system. Sonoma, according to the Coast Miwok and Pomo tribes who inhabited the region, translates to "valley of the moon" or "many moons." Indeed it had been many moons since I��d been so relaxed, and passing places with names like Petaluma and Sebastopol, I began to approach a level of laidback that should have been classified a moving violation.
Against all odds, and thanks in no small measure to the Chevrolet Malibu��s OnStar Navigation System, we eventually arrived. After settling in to our cabin on a piece of real estate that would have looked respectable in any national park, we went for a walk �C in the rain naturally �C to the neighboring winery, where we selected a delightful little merlot for later that evening.
As we arrived back at our rustic utopia, Carli and I both opened our mouths to speak, and simultaneously exclaimed �C SPA! After mild hysteria and a bout of personal-jinx mayhem, we settled down and hopped into the Malibu for the short drive to Sebastopol, home of the New Dawn Day Spa. Aptly named is all I need to say.
With San Francisco well and truly out of mind, we dragged our glowing bodies out of the proverbial mud bath, popped the complimentary truffles in our mouths, just about fell into the Malibu, and headed for renowned Bodega Bay. We spent a couple of moments in the themed Visitor��s Center going back and forth between appropriate solemnity and irreverent bouts of giggling at this being the place where Hitchcock filmed his classic The Birds.
With hunger now at full tilt, we knew what we had to do and were happy to take one for the cause. This meant throwing caloric caution to the wind with a get-on-down, slap-up Italian family-style extravaganza at the legendary Union Hotel in Occidental. Pastalicious!
There was no stopping us now. We rolled down the hill in the Chevy Malibu to our little cabin that could, and spent the rest of the afternoon in the Jacuzzi on the deck with that fabulous merlot, being rained on and caring not a whit.
Up with the sun �C yes it stopped raining �C and back into the getaway car for the drive back to San Francisco. We arrived just in time for another day in the salt mines. Not too bad though; I��ve still got eleven more sick days coming to me this year!
Author Bio: Maureen Grabowski works in advertising in San Francisco. Contrary to popular belief, she loves her Malibu, even though she spends way to much time trying to find parking for it. Maureen can��t believe that she actually gets paid to write, and even sometimes to be sick. For more information on the Chevrolet Malibu, visit www.norcaldriveschevy.com.
