Angelika Last weekend we had a holiday here, the so-called "Labor Day" ("Day of Work"), on which Michael also had a day off. So we immediately rented a car to take advantage of the extended weekend. We drove to the "Lost Coast". As the name suggests, this is not exactly the coastal section where the crowds gather and that's why we went there. The "Lost Coast" is located in the far north of California. That's where they couldn't build Highway 1 (Coast Dream Road) back then because the terrain was too rugged and the weather conditions too harsh. Fortunately, later, when technically there was nothing in the way of building the road, there were already nature conservationists who knew how to prevent it.

The only larger place on this stretch of coast with the name "Shelter Cove" can only be reached via a 25-mile very winding (it goes over the mountains) road with quite a few potholes, which takes about an hour (turbo drivers and mountain rat Michael of course managed it a bit faster). Arriving in Shelter Cove you feel immediately like in a completely different, very un-American world: No McDonalds, no bank, no gas station, the locals with their sun-tanned skin all look like fishermen and you have the impression that everyone meets in the evening in the only pub of the place, where nobody cares that smoking in pubs has been banned in California since the beginning of the year.

As I said, this place is close to the end of the world, where its own laws apply (Günter, for old smokers like you this would have been paradise). In front of the pub, the fishermen take out the freshly caught fish and above them the seagulls circle and make a deafening noise. All around, the ocean rages as far as the eye can see, there are vast cliffs and a long beach with black sand, which is quite unique for California and has led me to torment myself with the question all weekend why the sand suddenly turns black, one of those questions that can be approached both scientifically and philosophically. Well, I couldn't answer this question satisfactorily, but you can see that the landscape invited to stare at the sea and ponder for hours.

It would have all been wonderful, had the pitfalls of civilization not caught up with us on our arrival day. Our rental car had a flat tire, there was a nail in it, and it was hissing terribly, and in no time the tire was flat. Of course, it's clear that such misfortune only happens when you're at the end of the world without a gas station or auto repair shop, and it's a holy holiday in America, and the car insurance doesn't cover tire damage. Fortunately, Ed's Gas Station (long live the American service economy) had mercy on us. After we put on the spare tire, a spare wheel that was much smaller than the actual tire, and drove the 25 miles over the hill to the nearest town (this time slowly and decently), Ed himself patched the tire. Ed could have also played a gangster in a John Wayne western, the cigarette (remember, we're at a gas station where smoking is strictly forbidden due to the risk of explosion!) casually in the corner of his mouth, he quickly repaired the tire and only charged us 12 dollars (surely in cash) and saved our weekend.

Next weekend we'll be going on another trip. Michael was finally able to take a week off, eating into his 14-day annual vacation grant (you remember, previously he had a vacation stop due to a project) and we'll be heading to Hawaii. This time we are going to the island of "Molokai", which is said to be the least touristy and most original. We will report back in the next newsletter to tell you how it was!

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• More topics you might be interested in:

  	Social work in the Tenderloin
  	At the Nail Salon
  	Another earthquake!
  	Swabians in San Francisco
  	Shark Alert at Stinson Beach
  	The Lewinsky Affair