Yin is at rest, Yang moves. Yin is inside, Yang outdoors. Yin is dazzling, Yang worn out. The towns of Mendocino and Fort Bragg, situated on the snaky asphalt ribbon of Highway 1, represent the Yin and Yang of the Northern California coast. Whether you're there for the sea or spa, shopping or nature walks, or to simply do nothing, a trip to the Mendocino coast is most memorable in the spirit of the place.

Perched atop an outcropping of craggy rock overlooking the Pacific, the pristine town of Mendocino rises out of the ocean mist and coastal fog. This tiny settlement of well-preserved Victorians carves a clean edge out of the seascape beyond, the white church steeple reaching high into the sky. It's a town made for strolling. Everyone walks at a languid pace in the middle of the street. Oddly enough, the streets are lined with cars -- a bit of a disappointment, as their presence reminded me that I had not actually traveled back in time. Upon first entering the town of Mendocino, I felt like I'd jumped into an old black and white photo, the kind you find in the basement of an eccentric, rich Aunt.

'Mendoland,' as I've heard it called for its chichi shops and upscale restaurants, is picturesque and slow-paced. Narrow, windy alleyways with opulent hidden gardens and shops are nestled between the main streets. A horse drawn carriage meanders along the central thoroughfare, the driver waves hello to people casually hanging out on the steps of historic buildings. Ducking into stores selling things that could consume an entire paycheck and perusing menus of restaurants offering lunch entrees at $20+, I began to feel like Mendocino was less inviting than it's postcard perfect image, at least for my wallet.

It wasn't always so froufrou - in the 70s, Mendoland wasn't a place to shop and dine in elegant venues. It was a place to get back to nature. Mendocino was a magnet for bohemians escaping their urban lives to resettle in a rural environment. The back-to-the-land movement, as this migration was called, has stood the test of time. Walking the streets of town, I came upon homespun art galleries, shops selling herbal remedies, dread-locked hippies, and ramshackle buildings bedecked with artistic graffiti.

8 miles down the way is the timeworn Fort Bragg, once a thriving city built around the milling industry. Hobos guide scruffy dogs by rope leads along the highway. Downtrodden buildings dot the streets of the town's historical district. Fort Bragg is like an old pair of favorite shoes, polished and polished to maintain an illusion of newness, only to show off the cracks of use and time. But the town has character, and its charm is in some unusual attractions.

Having a predilection for the more bizarre experiences of a place, I found my dreamland at Glass Beach. In the past, Glass Beach was used as Fort Bragg's public dump. Today, the oddly picturesque trash landscape makes an excellent place to walk the dog, collect souvenirs, or picnic in the afternoon sun. Glass Beach is like a monstrous exhibition of modern art, rather than the resting grounds for discarded china, household trash, and automobile parts. Years of the ocean's pounding waves have polished discarded glass bottles, encrusting the sand with brilliant gem-like remnants of the man-made world amongst nature's contribution of seashells, moss, and rocks. A walk along the beach reveals rusted scraps of metal, old tires, warped plastic bottles, rubber tubes, a twisted dish rack, and even shoe soles protruding from black beach rocks, looking like the unfortunate products of a science experiment gone awry.

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