Last week, we finally made one road trip happen: driving from Los Angeles to San Francisco via Route 1. My husband and I had been talking about it since we moved to Los Angeles from New York two years ago. Talking about road trips gets me excited. Now, actually taking them is a different story. I get nervous just thinking of being trapped in a car for 7 hours, especially with three opinionated people. It’s not easy for anyone, but it’s particularly hard for a neurotic, claustrophobic human being.

It might also be a traumatic experience I still carry with me. The last time I road-tripped, a decade ago from New York to Florida, I lost 4 pounds. Not good for someone who already looks anorexic. The food along the way – if you can even call it food – was inedible.

I know times are different and the food scene in California is better, but still, what if it’s not good. What if they don’t have chamomile or lemongrass tea? I need my naturally decaffeinated teas in the morning like Italians need their espresso.

Our friends promised me that food-wise, we will be fine, but a skeptic is always a skeptic. I don’t know if it was my negativity or high expectations, but the restaurants along the way were not that good. However everything else was great. The pick-your-own-fruit farms, the pastoral views, the weather, and the eucalyptus trees they were great.

The boys loved jumping and exploring the tide pools and hiking in Big Sur, picking and eating fruits straight from the trees, watching a seal rescue in San Simeon, and observing elephant seals wrestling in the ocean and basking in the sun.

Everything was great, really. Except when my husband drove. He is a good driver but unfortunately has a fetish for carpool lanes. The man loves driving next to concrete walls, even when he has the highway to himself. It drives me nuts.

San Francisco was San Francisco – fascinating, delicious, stimulating and fun! So much good coffee and chocolate, can’t wait to do it all over again. Maybe by train?