At the end of every summer, San Franciscans begin to look forward to the potential of the fall. You begin anticipate warm Indian summer days and weekends filled with festivals and just hanging out in Dolores Park. When that oppressive summer fog begins to recede, you’re not sad to see it go.

Months of sun and a little rain and much more sun go by and the fog stays away. You forget about it. And then one day it unexpectedly returns. And you are unexpectedly glad to see it. You like the way it engulfs the city like a long lost blanket. You like the way it dampens those loved and hated non-native Eucalyptus trees and their scent reminds you of San Francisco in the summer.

It’s a strange feeling to be happy to greet the fog. It’s like you’ve left the Bay Area behind. And now you’re just San Francisco. For now.

Some of the most beautiful ideas I’ve ever come across through my travels are those of a Buddhist monk and peace activist named Thich Nhat Hanh. On a motorcycle tour of Hue, Vietnam, we made a stop at a monastery where he had once studied. It was a gorgeous setting overflowing with greenery and flowers and peacefulness.

It was there that I first learned about him and his thoughts on interacting with the world. One of his most impactful ideas is that everyone and everything alive is a miracle. And that the ability to recognize the miracle in the creation of something as small and everyday as a fruit or vegetable is an important step to internal freedom and happiness.

In travel, this mindset can often come naturally. There are so many new experiences for the senses which bring about a heightened awareness of the small wonders of the world. It gets a little harder to sustain this kind of everyday appreciation in the monotony of the places you know well.

But in the event that you do forget, I think farmers markets, in all their earthy glory, are great places to begin remembering.

The California coast never leaves a prime location in my heart. It may sometimes be pushed further back by busyness or efforts to see the world, but my fervor for the sight and sound of water rushing toward the jagged edges of the state is always there.

For me, visiting the quiet stretches of California coast between cities is not about getting away, it’s about getting back to myself. The city has a tendency to warp me, sometimes in ways that are simply other sides of me that I haven’t met, but it can also twist me into people that I am not.

But the coast demands honesty as those breezes envelope me and draw out what doesn’t belong and fill that new found space with beauty and contemplation and freshness.

Lately, the coast has been calling me. And soon, I will go.

202 antique street lamps comprise the Urban Light sculpture at the entrance of the Los Angeles County Museum of Art (LACMA). It’s visible from Wilshire and I’d ridden past the columns of lamps numerous times, but this was my first time seeing it up close.

It’s a piece of artwork that incorporates a number of ideas that I love — it’s recycled, it’s interactive, it’s open for the public to enjoy, and there are an unlimited amount of ways to interpret it.

If it were not for the gigantic, multiple building museum I was about to explore, I could’ve spent an hour at that sculpture alone, discovering the different angles and viewpoints.

I found these words of wisdom between the trees to be the most compelling of all the Presidio Habitats installations. Even though I’d seen many photographs of Winged Wisdom before I visited the exhibition, it still startled me when I rounded a corner and saw giant letters below, shaded by the trees and illuminated by the late afternoon sun. I imagine that it has tickled many unsuspecting passersby in the past year that its been on display.

The structure of the letters of Winged Wisdom are made of steel and mesh. They are filled with straw, an ideal material for robins to build their nests with. The sayings in this installation are based on the “wise” ways of robins: “resolve conflict with song”, “adapt to change” and “nest from the inside out”.

This unique piece of art is wise and organic; whimsical and exuberant. And while it’s inspired by and dedicated to robins, it’s as much of an homage to words as it is to the birds.

When it comes to driving between Los Angeles and the San Francisco Bay Area, Highway 101 is the happy medium between the  practical I-5 and the beauteous and time consuming coastal drive along Highway 1.

In metropolitan areas, the 101 can feel like a congested path that will only lead to a concrete jungle or strip mall. But between cities and suburbs, the large expanse of it is many different things.

It’s mountains and oak trees and rolling hills that are impossibly green after months of rain. It’s farming communities with under-appreciated migrant workers who labor to provide stores with the wonderful produce that we often take for granted in California. When the 101 intersects with Highway 1, it’s glorious vast misty ocean. It’s history. That particular route originated as a path between the missions that were built by the Spanish. They called it the El Camino Real.

At times, the 101 is also tiny towns where isolation has preserved an antiquated atmosphere; towns that emanate vacancy and melancholic beauty.

On Easter Sunday, for the past eleven years, people in San Francisco have gathered for what it is probably the strangest and most fun way to celebrate the day: Bring Your Own Big Wheel, a race down San Francisco’s windiest street. The race began on Lombard Street and eventually moved to Vermont Street at 20th Street which is the real curviest street in city, despite Lombard Street’s fame.

Once those who are brave enough have secured a kid’s plastic tricycle or Barbie truck or a large toy truck or a trashcan (really, anything dubious with plastic wheels on it), they take to Vermont Street and race down the street on whatever precarious method of transport they’ve chosen.

It’s not an event to spend too much time thinking about, it’s just a day to laugh a lot and revel in ridiculousness and sigh and say, “Only in San Francisco” with utmost fondness for the city.

The race happens regardless of the weather. As you can see above, this year, it was a sunny and pleasant Easter afternoon. Check out my write up and photos from last year’s slick and rainy BYOBW race here.

For almost a year, San Francisco’s Presidio National Park has been running a unique public art exhibition called Presidio Habitats. The artwork is spread throughout the park and each installation is meant to educate visitors about San Francisco’s history, culture, and most of all, its native animals. Some of the species highlighted still exist in the city, while others have long left for more hospitable environments.

Some of the artwork catches your eye immediately and others, like the Western Screech-Owl Habitats, can be easily missed if you’re not looking. I appreciated the awareness the exhibition elicited. In searching for each installation, I found a number of new views of the Presidio I have yet to see, and it’s a park I have explored numerous times.

While Western Screech-Owls are open to nesting in man-made spaces, they no longer live in San Francisco. These porcelain vessels were created with the idea that they might lure the owl back to the city. For humans, the habitats serve to teach about the owl as well as to highlight San Francisco’s Chinese influence.

The vessels were created by Chinese artist, Ai Weiwei, who was recently arrested for being a vocal critic of his government.

Sometimes San Francisco’s MUNI buses and trains can be an unsavory stew of desperation and disenchantment. At other times, MUNI can be a delicious melting pot of colors, languages, and backgrounds.

One day back in early September, I had one of those delicious MUNI rides. That day was the beginning of a break from several days of foggy weather; the kind of spectacular San Francisco Saturday that makes people head out en masse to the ocean and parks and festivals and immerse themselves in the beauty of the city before the fog inevitably rolls in again.

While I was riding a MUNI bus through the Mission District that day, this small and stooped old woman climbed aboard. She spoke Spanish and was familiar with many of the people who were getting on and off the bus. She had a gentle way about her and she was carrying a single red rose. As she sat back in her seat, her Mary Jane-clad feet lifted off the ground.

Tranquility, wisdom, friendship, appreciation of the little things, childlike enthusiasm for life, and grace all converged in the image of this old woman like an advertisement for contentment, like a summation of that day.

We hadn’t quite reached the entrance for the Antelope Valley Poppy Reserve when we started to spot fields and hills brushed with orange and yellow. How could we not pull over?

On that day, the wind blew freely and forcefully in the Mojave. As I stepped out of the car, I felt its chill and massive strength. We ran across the street and over to this field. There was a little path in the middle of it leading to nowhere in particular. I imagine the path was created over the years by people like us who were not content to continue driving past so much beauty, so they pulled over in the same spot to take a closer look and let the wind consume them.