California, May 2005, by Anonymous

From MemoryArchive

Who: Anonymous
What: Trip to California
When: May, 2005
Where: California

I am from the Northeastern part of America. We dress drab; olive, grey, black, beige. As we walk down the sidewalk, we are all practically engaged in a scowl contest. We’re a late people, coffee guzzlers, attached to our cellphones. We’d rather turn up the heat than put on a sweater. We’d pay somebody to change our oil. And no smoking cigarettes. Most of us live in suburbs, and voted for Kerry. We’re the liberal elite, and the conservative too. The Establishment, the Man.

It’s a culture that seems egocentric, and brash. And I grew up in it. Funny, because I smile at folks, dress in layers, and I try to be on time. I suppose I have some gene that makes me yearn for a simpler, more congenial time in America, when we could talk about politics without the handcuffs of political correctness, enjoy a cigarette in public, and let our kids play in vacant lots without worrying about lawsuits. Does such a place still exist?

Maybe that’s why we think of California as such a special, American place. To the post-modern Northeasterner, California is the Mecca of the black sheep, the red-headed step child, the wallflower. To fall short of [v/ society]’s expectation is a black mark on the mind of a Yankee. But California! The state founded and built up by dreamers: Spanish missionaries, the forty-niners, Hollywood starlets, immigrants, hippies, and computer nerds. People who wanted the American dream, and didn’t always get there. A place where people don’t care what you’re doing, because we’re all too concerned about making our own shit come through. Is it true?

This is the California I imagined last spring, as school wound down. California has always held a mystery that does not surround, say, Michigan. The end of America, the last piece of that red, white, and blue puzzle. The most people, the state with an Austrian movie star as governor. Hollywood. Silicon Valley. Marijuana. And the women. Oh God, the women.

I wanted to travel somewhere, somewhere new. I was tired from schoolwork. My aunt and uncle had moved to San Jose a few years ago, and my friend from college lives in Pasadena. So toward the end of school, about mid-April of 2005, I arranged to make my first trip to the left coast. I flew out of Philadelphia International Airport on the morning of the 8th, my dad dropped me off in the terminal on a cool, gray day. The final destination was Sacramento, the capital of the Golden State, via Denver. I occupied a window seat next to a kid named Tom, who I gathered was the fratboy type heading out to Aspen to ski.

Approaching Denver was a lesson in God’s majesty. The Rocky Mountains shadowed the city like a mighty mother bear would rise up to intimidate a predator eager to harm her cubs. At the same time, a Coors Lite commercial played in my head (DAMN YOU ADVERSITING AGENCIES). I ate a Chicken Carbonera sandwich from Quizno’s between flights. It was expensive, but good.

Sacramento, I think, was a good place to begin. I wanted to see as much of Cali as possible, and a train ride from Sacto to Oakland was a good idea of my own invention, besides it was a hell of a lot easier than having my aunt and uncle drive three hours, just because their dumb nephew couldn’t schedule a flight correctly.

I stepped out of the baggage area to find a cab to the train station, greeted by the dry glaze of California sun. A Chinaman picked me up, and we struck up a typical cabbie-passenger conversation. Mostly I was eager to look out the window. It was a gorgeous day, and the sky revealed fields and fields of crops, and a landscape with with rings of suburban tract housing, each dwelling topped with Spanish tile and off white stucco facades. I thought to myself, where does the populous get their water?

I arrived at the train station, rather tired. I did not feel any jet lag, maybe because it was an early morning flight. The structure of the building revealed a combination of grandiose modern architecture, in the vein of Union Station in Washington, DC, or 30th street station in Philadelphia, and Spanish stylings of the same era. Inside, you wouldn’t know that this was a train station in the capital of the most important state in the Union. It was spaceous, hot, and the vaunted stylings and Romanesque tile floors made any little sound reverberate like an echo chamber. Mostly old people fussing over crosswords in there, but I remember two kids with acoustic guitars, their bluesy licks acting as a truly natural score to this hot afternoon scene.

I climbed aboard the train, my suitcase in tow. I picked out a seat on the second level of the train, and surveyed my fellow passengers. A father and his daughter. Many Hispanics. But the scene that captivated me the most was a scene with a mother and a very young daughter which I would not describe as tender. The woman looked unkempt, not what I would describe as destitute, but revealing a carelessness in the areas of dental hygiene and hair style. She carried her possessions in two second hand tote bags. The girl, about six, looked physically healthy, and displayed the charm and intrigue about the world which children should carry themselves with, but there was something about her that revealed tragedy. Why were this woman and her daughter taking a train trip across California in the middle of the day on a weekday? Don’t people have cars? The woman rambled, often reprimanded the girl for silly reasons, and something about their relationship cut me. I suspected a drug addled past on the part of the woman, and I hatefully admitted to myself that this tender girl would spend her formative years tainted by abusive situations, drug use, and a roving lifestyle among the dissolute, morally relativist freakshows which only California can have. I couldn’t prove any of this, but if you had seen it, you’d agree. The train curved around the San Francisco bay, in all it’s vastness, often right along the sea-splashed rocks with old lobster traps entwined in them like spinach in my mother’s teeth after a meal. I saw all the gorgeous, expensive homes which dotted the hills over the bay, wanted them, and then thought about how terrestrially unstable it probably is to live there. I thought about Joe DiMaggio, a San Francisco native, and what he must have looked at when he was a boy in the 1920s, before yuppies ruined natural beauty.

By the time the train eased into its’ berth in Oakland, I felt like I needed a new ass. I had been sitting for about nine hours straight. My aunt and uncle were there to greet me. My aunt is a talker; she would put Cicero to shame. But loquacious as she may be, she has a big heart and a decent brain to boot. So I became thoroughly versed in the Bay area as we plodded along in the afternoon traffic, something I noticed about California that Henry Ford would never have thought to see. In an odd observation, I saw more custom license plates during the forty five minute drive to San Francisco then I had in my entire life. A vain breed, I thought. The bay area itself is a wondrous natural beauty, with channels, islands, and hills meshing perfectly, like a Thanksgiving dinner. And I experienced this first hand, as we cruised through San Francisco and over the Golden Gate Bridge into Marin County (where all the true California crazies live, my uncle assured me, except they have money). After parking, we ascended a hill converted into a National Parks site specifically for the scenic overlook. Truthfully, I have never seen a more physically beautiful cityscape in my life, though the sight of New York City inspires a certain emotional connection which cannot be trumped.

After a dinner in Fisherman’s Wharf (a posh commercial tourist area along the waterfront), we headed for San Jose, a relatively unheralded metropolis about an hour drive from San Francisco. Along the way, we drove right through the heart of Silicon Valley. Each tech firm had its’ logo adhered prominently on the front of each futuristic office park complex. Yahoo. Sun. Oracle. Strange to think that sixty years ago, nobody knew what a computer was.

I loved the four days I stayed with my aunt. I was waited on hand and foot, and had unquestioned access to satellite TV. I saw two of my older cousins, and saw some cool things around the city. I come from a racially homogenous region of America, only one hundred and sixty one Black people live in my town (citation needed). So for the first time I saw large numbers of Mexican Americans who appeared in a professional setting or dress, not mowing lawns or washing dishes. Also, even thought I kept an open mind, I am convinced Asian women are the worst drivers.

The best part of my stay with my aunt was my trip to Monterrey, town on the coast, about a two hour drive from San Jose. Route 1 is the legendary road in California, and it lived up to its reputation. It winded through mountains for about an hour miles before smoothing out on the approach to Monterrey. Approaching the city, the road ran right beside the sparkling Pacific ocean, and on the other side was miles and miles of farmland. Unquestionably the most beautiful route I have traveled down. Monterrey sits in a valley next to the ocean, and it’s most famous attraction is an aquarium, which sits on the site of Cannery Row, the series of fish factories, the subject of John Steinbeck’s famous book. As far as aquariums go, it was engaging, to say the least. Monterrey seemed to me a calm, content city, a place I would not mind living one day. They also have a killer annual Jazz Festival.

We parted the following day as I hopped on a plane to LAX. I was thrilled to be heading toward the Mecca of my pilgrimage, Los Angeles. Kobe Bryant, Sublime, Compton, Beverly Hills, Baywatch. I think that summarizes the American conception of L.A. Interestingly enough, I think L.A. is the only place in America in which we associate famous people with the mention of its name rather than renowned locations or historical significance.

Approaching Los Angeles was one of the most memorable experiences of my life. Looking out my tiny porthole, all I could see was homes, stretching for miles and miles just homes. And then some more homes, some with little swimming pools in the back. They city appeared to have two or three downtown sections, and the huge freeway system in L.A. bore huge amounts of afternoon traffic neatly arranged like Matchbox cars on a linoleum floor. God that was exciting. Later I learned over fifteen million people lived in L.A. county. In the airport, I saw more hot girls in the baggage claim area then were in my entire high school.

My connect picked me up outside, and we headed on the freeway toward his home in Pasadena. The city seemed so huge, like if you were lost, you would be eaten alive by morlocks dwelling under the highway before you found your way home.

The In-N-Out burger is a key part of the California experience. Natives rave about the quality of the product, but I was not impressed with their standard order, the double double (two beef patties with fries and a shake). However, I could never reveal this to my friend. It would be a gastronomical slap in the face.

The nature of California housing is akin to being packed like sardines in a crushed tin box. All of the houses are nice, but the sprawl was unwelcome to a man like myself who values a splash of nature between all the prefabs. That’s the California way I suppose. I think in general that Californians care about possessions more than other folks. This sounds like the antithesis of our idea of the Golden State, but everyone seemed to have a nice house, a nice car, nice clothes, and put major effort into their appearance. The Beach Boys were right, the girls there are the best. The sun must fuel their compulsion to stay in shape and look hot, however that is accomplished.

The southern California was not stifling humidity, which I liked. It was an encouraging warmth, which beckoned us outside almost every morning to take our breakfast on the porch. My friend’s stepfather owned a BMW from the 80s, and each day the top was down as we flew down the 405, blasting some classic rock, roaming from site to site. I guess I experienced what most people come to California for, a moment in which one feels glamorous.

One of our itineraries was Venice Beach. This was clearly the American haven for any stoner, hippie, deviant, miscreant, homeless, surfer bum, or anyone who felt so inclined to dress up in a Bootsy Collins type jumpsuit and play guitar on rollerblades. Among it’s attractions included a swarm of amateur philosophers (many of whom had never seen a razor I am quite sure), no less than a dozen head shops, and a workout area which unofficially, belonged to only the most jacked-up, sexiest weightlifters in Venice Beach. The highlight of the day was a superb Mexican eat-in/take out place which was run completely by immigrants of Mexico. The food was outstanding, and we inhaled two burritos while watching the staff hassle, joke, and yell at one another in Spanglish. One day we ventured to an attraction in Burbank known as the Museum of Jurassic Technology. It had piqued our interest when we stumbled upon it’s unusual name on the internet. The website itself proclaimed, “The Same Knowledge May Never Be Known Again.’ Though it sounded weird and borderline cultish, we decided to check it out. Besides, entry was free anyway.

The museum was small, the size of a small office building, and stood very inconspicuously on the corner of a street with some small, post-college type of apartments. Inside, a quirky, slightly attractive female greeted us with the tone and mannerisms of a Vincent Price. We began our own, self-guided tour of the Museum of Jurassic Technology. An introductory panel of text told us what exactly the museum was about, how it got it’s name, etc., but it was primarily a half-baked, metaphysical philosophy explained in confounding, pretentious language. So I really don’t know about the name or what it means.

But much to our delight, the exhibits were very engaging and sated our intellectual appetite. One exhibit discussed folklore medical remedies of America, such as tying a bat’s head to your bedpost, putting leeches in your milk, etc., things that make you so very thankful for not being born in the Feudal age. Another featured miniature sculptures which are so tiny they can fit inside the head of a pin, one of Pope John Paul II and one of Napoleon Bonaparte were prominently featured. One of the more interesting was a summary and exhibition of the life and works of Athanasius Kircher, one of the most brilliant and prolific scholars of all time, writing over forty books on virtually every conceivable discipline.

I flew home a few days later. Pulling my bags out of the trunk of my friend’s car, I surveyed the city one last time and finally saw it. The one thing that makes Los Angeles legendary, that aura and scent of a racially diverse, expansive metropolis. The smog.

It was a thick cloud which choked the city in midmorning, if the city itself was a living, breathing, rational organism, it would be like waking up in the morning every day with a hangover. Then I entered Los Angeles International Airport (a shabbily organized and designed operation) and flew home. So what was California? It was climate, which I think accounts for the population’s mood and lifestyle more than any other factor. It’s just a pleasure to be outside., and not be tormented by humidity, insects, or wind. Analogous to the inner feeling of sophistication and panache that marks a trip to New York City, when I stepped outside myself and felt about being in L.A., I received my emotions as an almost decadent feeling of calmness and happiness. I also reveled in the inherent trashiness of the city (the freaks, the vanity, the traffic, Hollywood, smog), I felt like dozens of Pulp Fiction-like scenarios were perhaps playing out around me at any moment. But overall, the pleasant physical conditions inspire pleasant emotional conditions. I don’t think the same could be said for Rwanda. I think I’d like to continue my love affair with California after college. Southern California trumped Northern California, where vanity, wealth, and the suburban image (ironically a Southern California concept) fuel many people’s lifestyle. The people were strange, but generally friendly. It was hard for me to imagine that America being part of my America. But I’m glad it is.