Carmel, or Caramel for Easter?

Carmel, California 

It was Easter weekend, and the first one in a while that felt like truly relaxed. We spent the weekend in Carmel, a place that Jamie continued to question if it should instead be called Caramel, like the inside of a Cadberry Egg. While strolling beaches and drinking wine does not resemble the egg hunts we always feel sick for at Easter time, Carmel had an ooey-gooey center that made Easter weekend special, and like home. The quiet and calm streets made you tip-toe through them, looking around every corner in a hunt for the cutest house, or cottage (mind you, a cottage here is still an X-million dollar home). It's chocolate covering was the ocean views and the clear, blue waves that stretched and yawned on the warm, white sand. A dolphin passed us by one morning, and we drank hot cocoa as a seal played between the jutting rocks.

Boo has become a beach bum. She ate the bunny ears we made her wear, and she played with every washed up stick that we passed. She was so played-out that she was snoring before we left for an evening drink. What Easter means to Boo, we may never know, but can guess at.

Carmel held many other delights, from the greatest place EVER to buy a soft pretzel, Robinson Jeffers poetically styled home, to Clint Eastwood's Mission Ranch. At the Ranch, we enjoyed a view of Point Lobos as the mist rolled in at sunset, enjoying wine and the sound of crashing waves.

Whether Carmel is Caramel, or Caramel is Carmel, there is a sweetness and a likeness that transported us home for Easter.