Clyde wakes early — 6:30, in fact. He rolls over and shakes me. “Hey,” he says. “Hey, you.”
I sit up, bleary-eyed. “What time is it?”
“It’s eight-thirty,” Clyde says.
I pull on my glasses and glance at the clock. “It’s six-thirty!”
“Eight-thirty central,” Clyde says, turning on all the lights and opening the curtains.
We pack up our stuff, then head downstairs for the El Dorado’s breakfast buffet. The turkey sausages look doubtful, so we stick to bacon and the tasty little breakfast burritos. And a Belgian waffle. And some hash browns. And some fruit.
Upon hearing the fires are out, we decide to return to Sacramento by way of Lake Tahoe. The drive fascinates us, with the desert giving way to the steep slopes of the Sierra Navada mountains. The narrow road snakes up, up, up, cresting at 7,000 feet above sea level. As we descend, we catch our first glimpse of Lake Tahoe: a huge, blue jewel all but hidden by the towering firs.
Our schedule forces us to limit our Tahoe experience to a driving tour — but the sights make the trip worthwhile. We make our way from the north edge of the lake to the southern tip, enjoying the view and the bright sunshine.
As we head back to Sacramento, we decide give in yet again to the allure of the In-N-Out burger.
I know, I know: here we are in California, a state that has more restaurants than all of Italy — and we keep going to a hamburger joint. We just can’t help ourselves — this is no ordinary hamburger. I order the burger with fries and a shake … and, for the third time this trip, experience culinary delight. Instead of being laden with anemic veggies, the sandwich bursts with flavor and moisture and crispness.
As we arrive at the airport, we see a fender-bender: a red car barely taps the passenger door of a gold convertible. The only damage amounts to a drooping front bumper on the red car, and the two parties chat as though they’re old friends.
As the rental car shuttle transports us to our terminal, we pass the accident scene again. Eight fire trucks surround the two cars, blocking traffic. At least a dozen fire fighters in asbestos suits scurry in all directions. A sour-faced officer in a tight cap writes up a detailed report, refusing to get out of the road.
Medics lift the man involved in the accident out of his car, placing him on a stretcher. They secure his neck with a brace, strapping his forehead to a stiff board. In all, perhaps twenty law-enforcement and safety officials descend on the site. The cars involved have been moved to the side of the road — our progress is impeded by the congregation of excited city employees, not by the accident itself.
A slow day in Sacramento, I suppose.
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