Most nights when I walk out my back door I can see the lights of Paso Robles off in the distance, twinkling like the Land of Oz. It's pretty. Some nights I wish I could be there, holding hands with Big Ag and dining at some dimly-lit restaurant, strolling the streets and popping into the in-town tasting rooms to sample local wines. Other nights I'm happy to see it from 20 miles away on my hilltop; at those times, the city is a mysterious creature I'm content to watch from a distance.
Like most living things, the city is especially lovely from my hilltop view at about 5:30 a.m., when it's quietly sleeping under dawn's first light, the street lights winking out, one after another. Once in awhile it's almost enough to make me miss the rituals of waking up in a city ... the rumble of the garbage truck and the early school busses, the smack of the morning paper on the doorstep, the gradually increasing hum of traffic as the city rises like a single entity and comes to life in the chill air.
Yet despite missing some things, I still think that maybe having it available to enjoy, yet still living far enough away from it that I can't hear it, smell it or taste it in the air is a good thing.
And by "a good thing," I mean damn near ideal.
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