Pacific Coast Highway 1

You could use a bunch of superlatives, like spectacular, breathtaking or amazing, but they don't speak to the minds eye. Instead, google Pacific Coast Highway 1, better yet, images: "Big Sur". You will see, rolling green hills plunging hundreds of feet down to a turquoise blue surf. You will see the giant polished black heads of knobby skulled gnomes rising from the inky blue surf. You will see white crystal waves crashing into their open mouths.

Now set yourself down on that little black hardtop that snakes along the coast. Do 90, no, 95. Your hair is golden, streaming behind you. Imagine Brian Wilson sitting in the back seat of your convertible. He is strumming a guitar and singing softly to you.
"Round Round, get around, I get around."
Forget the August sun. It is January and the air is crisp, yet the sun is kissing every inch of your body.
That's the setting. That's were this all takes place.

Caitlin met me at the airport. She was wearing purple, fishnet stockings, purple suede disco shoes and a mid thigh psychedelic purple dress. I got a big smile and a big hug as I entered the waiting area. We breezed out of the parking lot in her Mini-cooper.

Minutes out of San Francisco it got good already.
"How did they save all of this?" I asked her. "There are no billboards, no concrete, no neon, no endless strip malls. I don't even see a single gas station.
"Im not sure." She smiled. "But I'm pretty sure my mother had something to do with it."

Here is my guess based on absolutely no research. It was the beginning of the 21st century. Roosevelt was president. They had seen what had happened on the East Coast. Somebody begged him. Somebody big, with vision.
"Please Mr. President. Don't let that happen here."
And he stopped it. With his pen he stopped it.