BLESSED COAST... It is late in the Todos Santos afternoon. The Bajamon horizon—a metaphorically brackish intermingling of Pacific’s grand ocean and Señor Cortez’s noble sea—pulls El Sol lovingly into its awaiting bosom. Like La SEÑORA MADONNA cradling the glowing head of Jesus, that eternal wet line dividing light blue sky from deep blue sea softly embraces raging sun, cools it, and extinguishes it.

The air here is much cooler than normal. Winter has brought little rain and low temperatures. Omnipresent mosquitoes buzz at reduced wfpm (wing flaps per millisecond). Lizards leap infrequently or not at all, choosing instead to head inland, where the desert squeezes more sunlight from the atmosphere.

This is a foreign land. Yes it is made more recognizable by the soul of its people, whose representatives throughout America infuse our culture with their significant contributions, but Toto, we ain’t in Kansas anymore. My snap-dragon Enspanitalian, an amalgam of bad Italian, worse Spanish and mediocre American, leaves me virtually helpless among fast talking locals whose patience far outweighs my communicability. It works wonders for the ego to place ourselves where habitual behavior yields virtually no tangible rewards.

In this beautiful space I inhabit—for one week of extra-sensory stimulation, relaxation, emotional gratification and education—I sit quietly as our gracious cook prepares a humble feast, unleashing salivatory aromas into our already perfumed surroundings. She dances her normal dance, more than likely a mundane mambo to her. To me she moves like CARMEN MIRANDA. A phone call interrupts the routine. It is someone close to her—close enough to spontaneously combust her into a tearful, imploring, heart-wrenching interaction that obviously ruins her composure. Afterwards, unable to engage her in even the simplest comforting conversation, I can only suffer along with her in silence, useless in the face of a fellow human’s need for solace and understanding.

Moments such as that one etch indelible markings onto our souls. Those markings defines each of us and distinguish us from another. How difficult it is to truly feel our inner connectedness to everything around us each moment. How simple it is to unconsciously overlook everything but our own life’s looping video. How important it is to discover a way to bridge the wide chasm between those two forms of expression.

As I sit here slowly, Baja desert slowly, unwrapping evening’s dark gifts, I am grateful for the opportunity to embrace unfamiliar behavior. Today’s madcap pressure cooker world really needs to evolve into a more gracefully flowing ballet whereby humans each balance life with healthy doses of work, play, stress and relief. Our intuitive understanding of our individual rhythm directs us seamlessly throughout life—except when we ignore it, are forced out of it, or worse yet, are taught it doesn’t exist.

I sincerely request that from now on, each of you take an extra moment here and there to still yourself, to allow your soul’s natural rhythm to sway you, and to feel for that intuitive understanding of your own life. Then try following what that intuition uncovers. Little by little, one reclaimed self directed step at a time, we can remake the world into a paradise.

GREEN HEAVEN...To golfers, paradise exists in many forms and in many places. Few personify that ideal more so than our own magnificent Monterey Peninsula, especially at Pebble Beach. Arguably still the world’s number one most beloved golfing destination, Pebble Beach opens its arms to those huddled masses yearning to swing free for another AT&T magical mystery tour.

No other golf event brings together as diverse a gathering of players, from mega golfing talents like PHIL MICKELSON, JIM FURYK AND VIJAY SINGH to lesser-known talents like BOO WEAKLEY (relation to Rob?) and VANCE VEAZEY. Even our own BOBBY CLAMPETT laces ‘em up. Then of course there are the celebrity partners, folks like GEORGE LOPEZ, RAY ROMANO, ANDY GARCIA, BILL MURPHY…OR MURRAY or whatever his name is. There are captains of industry, even journalists—Stone Philips is listed as a journalist. By that standard, isn’t it conceivable that I might be invited some day (a guy can dream, can’t he?).

The beauty of it all is the diversity of the fans theses stars in turn draw. Where else can you see an old time hardcore rocker vying to get a peak at ALICE COOPER’S swing alongside a fine-looking upscale model type slyly stalking ANDY GARCIA alongside a beer-gutted football fan trailing BILL BELICHICK, alongside…you get the idea. Add to it all Poppy’s Hills and every golfer’s gem, Spyglass, and you have just about the best example of why golf is the greatest game in the world.

DIFFERENT STROKES... Another great game of sorts is drinking wonderful wine and eating wonderful food. You can do just that at Peppoli Restaurant every weekend, but not always with the MARCHESE PIERO ANTINORI, overseer of that family’s current winery operations, one that spans a couple of hundred years. He’ll be on hand, along with guest chefs SUZETTE GRASHAN-TOGNETTI of Aquarello in San Francisco and TIBERIO SABATINI from Castello Della Sala in Italy. They will be joining Peppoli Chef Arturo Moscoso in preparing food from selected regions of Italy.

It all begins on Friday, Feb. 2, at 7pm with a reception and dinner party introducing Antinori. Then, throughout the day Saturday, there will be cooking demos, lunch, wine tasting with Antinori, a reception and then a gala dinner celebrating the wines of Antinori Estates. The event is limited to 60, so chances are it might already be too late. Call anyway and grovel, 647-7500.

Don’t forget the Masters of Food and Wine—the last one—arrives soon. Get to at least one of the events that weekend, you will be completely happy you did…meanwhile, adios, buena suerte.