Seventeen Mile Drive

It felt like a scene out of Magnum P.I. or Vertigo or even something by Disney, the skinny lane snaking its way through mansion-bordered beach-front property. Everything was so picture perfect, some murder mystery or rich beach girl comedy felt imminent. After paying a small entry fee to drive on the privately-owned road, we drove past house after four-story house lined with immaculately manicured trees and hedges. Massive oaken or wrought-iron gates barred entrance to outsiders. Cars cleaner and more expensive than my parents' home were parked precisely in line along the lane by the Pebble Beach golf course, while two Asian men dressed in polo shirts and slacks shouldered their clubs to the next hole. I felt like an intruder -- an imperfection in this modeled and molded community. Eye-opening to me was that some people really do live that way. Happily, I am not one of them. My penchant is toward the imperfect and unpredictable.
As a side note, the photos posted here were taken at a small viewing area along this road. I didn't realize just how well known the "Seventeen Mile Drive" was until I was showing these pictures to my dear papa, and immediately he said, "Oh, you were down near Monterrey on the Seventeen Mile Drive." I would find it odd if one day I rattled off some pictures near my home in Spanish Fork and someone who isn't from those parts suddenly said, "Oh, you were down in Spanish Fork, near Wolf Hollow."