My sister, who lives in New England and who supplies clams and lobsters when I visit, expects oysters at this end of the country.

We are familiar with each other’s regional delicacies and neighborhood attractions from all the years we’ve been traveling between coasts. Some of our best visits are when we get together and do things on a whim, on the cheap and as local as possible. This concept of playing tourist in your own backyard, known as the stay-cation, is not new to us. We take turns at it.

The weather forecast for the week was moody and indecisive, typical for Northern California in June but a soggy surprise for even a regular visitor, especially a New Englander who doesn’t consider fleece vests and socks necessary summer wear.

We decided to ignore the weather and head for Tomales Bay. Taking the back roads, up and over Sonoma and Marin farmland and hills, the route presents spectacular vistas that are pretty routine to me, which is why you want a non-local along, to remind you where you live and to ooh and ahh over cows and egrets and sudden outcropping of poppies.

This concept of the stay-cation is not new to us.

I feel the same in her world. On the short drive from her house to the beach, I go wild over stone fences, corn stands and salt marshes. When I’m back there I always need to stop at one of the funky old fish shacks you see sitting on the water in most coastal towns, un-fancy places where you can grab a plate of fried clams or haddock and take in that raw briny sea air which to me is perfume.

Why, I always whine, can’t California have our own funky fish places? The choice is either a white linen sit-down restaurant with large menus or an oyster farm where you buy a bag of raw ones to take home and grill. But on this day driving along Tomales Bay my keen-eyed sister spotted a store in the tiny town of Marshall with a sign promising cold beer and barbecued oysters. We sat on the water’s edge at a table made from a board across two barrels, slurped a dozen garlicky beauties, mopped up the juice with slabs of sourdough and watched Point Reyes pop out of the fog. A vacation high-five.

There were others. Another night we drove up the road to Healdsburg for outdoor burgers and wine followed by sweet, live jazz. Because my sister was coming I thought ahead and ordered tickets for the Healdsburg Jazz Festival, something I tend to often regrettably let slip until it’s long over. At the Sebastopol farmers market we ate tamales for breakfast and my sister bagged up rhubarb and strawberries to make a pie. She rolled out the crust – she has the pie gene, not me – and we talked about our grandmother and her rhubarb patch in Pennsylvania and our dad’s strawberry garden in Connecticut.

A stay-cation is not as exotic as going to Venice or Barcelona. People don’t listen dreamily to your story about how you stayed home and drank coffee for half the morning, then walked downtown to the book store, scored a blue sweater on sale and bought an ice cream cone.

I know that eventually I will get the yearning to go some place where I need a passport and a dictionary. When a friend said she was taking her family to France this summer, I felt a twinge of Frequent Flyer envy.

Yet, for now, the recession has made backyard vacations the chic alternative, and I’m thinking I should soon plan another one. Maybe a place where the sun comes up over the ocean and there’s a bucket of steamers and a free bed waiting.

Photo from Marshall Store

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