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A massive white bean, the size of an imposing, albino beetle; Gigantes—or “giant”—beans are often used in Greek meals; my introduction to Gigantes beans came several years ago at a farm stand in Pescadero, California; located a few miles inland from the Pacific Ocean and Highway 1, Pescadero is a short drive south from Half Moon Bay, a surfing spot world-renowned for its deadliness; Phipps Country Store, located in Pescadero, has a dazzling collection of beans, including Gigantes; my mother purchased a bag of Gigantes beans, and she, my father, and I ate lunch at Duarte’s Tavern; this meal made me cry; in January of this year, my girlfriend and I drove south from San Francisco, and I insisted on stopping in Pescadero; we ate at Duarte’s Tavern and ordered their famed Olallieberry Pie; perhaps you are not aware of this, but the Olallieberry Pie at Duarte’s is the finest pie known to man; no, really; the first thing you should know about this pie is that olallieberries, which sound like a Dr. Seuss berry, are real; olallieberries are the hybrid of a youngberry and loganberry; youngberries are a hybrid of a dewberry and a blackberry; loganberries are a hybrid of a blackberry and a raspberry; there is science in berries; the Olallieberry Pie at Duarte’s Tavern is aesthetically perfect, overflowing with cold, plump, tart olalieberries and a hot pie crust that is flaky, buttery—more like the phyllo dough used in baklava than typical graham-cracker pie crust; you must get this pie a la Mode; my girlfriend could not order the Olallieberry pie a la Mode because she is allergic to cow milk; still, she loved the pie; after leaving Pescadero, we drove south and stopped at the Pigeon Point light house, which is tall and ancient and has a youth hostel; we discussed staying at the hostel, but we drove on; my girlfriend and I arrived in Santa Cruz at sunset, and walked on the wharf pier; from earlier trips, I remembered seeing seals barking beneath the pier, like hungry, homeless, black labs that tumbled into the sea and decided not to return to land; there were no seals this day; from the pier we watched the decaying wooden boardwalk, a Coney Island doppelganger; my girlfriend and I hid behind restrooms, found a bench, kissed and groped; we drove further south, pulled off the highway in search of an out-of-the-way place, and instead found ourselves in a crowded grocery store parking lot; we fooled around, feeling hidden by Japanese imports, but soon realized that two stoners standing in front of a Laundromat were watching us, smoking, drinking coffee, and probably providing running commentary, like an episode of “Mystery Science Theater 3000;” outside of Santa Barbara, we got a room at a cheap motel and did what we’d being wanting to do the entire trip down Highway 1; while next door there was a remarkably tacky arcade that looked neon enough to have been built in exactly 1986, and we discussed how fun it would be to play video games, we did not go; we fell asleep with HBO on, the volume turned low; the next morning we got coffee at a Starbucks and drove to Los Angeles; we passed a town called Summerland, which I knew nothing about, and had never noticed before; that morning I was completely happy, wanted to be nowhere else, and could not believe my good fortune to be sharing a car with the most beautiful woman alive; every song that played on the radio that morning felt like it was programmed just for us; when I got back to Los Angeles I did laundry; my girlfriend and I purchased no Gigantes beans on our trip; Gigantes is one of the few Greek words I know; the only Greek word I use on a regular basis is “malaka”; I learned this word from my freshman roommate in college, and yelled it out as he received his degree at graduation; I meant it affectionately, but his family was not amused; if you do not know the meaning of the word “malaka,” spend an hour in front of Port Authority, and you will soon hear it used in several different, equally colorful ways; sometimes, too often, I feel more alive in my memories than I do in the present—even as I write these words; malaka!