Kendal Gast
ENGL 305
4-7-16
10 Pages2
To California and
Back
Breaking
up is hard to do. Going on a ten day
vacation a week after is borderline insane.
But Erin and I wanted to make it work because not going would be too expensive.
So she invited her best friend Riley and I invited my roommate
Immanuel. See, when Erin and I bought
the tickets in January we naively thought we would still be together by the
time Spring Break rolled around. With
these two new travellers, we hoped, but never actually said to each other, that
neither of us would punch each other in face on the car ride to the
airport. That didn’t happen, but there
were plenty of “talks” throughout the journey up the coast of California.
Flight
8029 arrived in San Diego around 2pm on Thursday, March 10th. My aunt who isn’t really my aunt but my mom’s
first cousin picked the four of us up and immediately drove to In-N-Out Burger. Sadly, that would be our only taste of
quality West Coast burgers. Soon after
dumping our 70-liter hiking bags (Spirit charges the shit out of everything) at
Auntie Jayne’s place and borrowing a vehicle, Mission Beach came into view.
I’ve been lucky enough to see both mountains
and several different beaches on either coast, and deciding where I’d rather
live is difficult… Because isn’t that
what it comes down to, the ocean or the mountains? Either way, I would choose the mountains. They’re infinitely more mysterious and
seductive, pulling your vision to each peak or fold in the earth’s ancient
crust when you’re in the midst of them, looking west. Each time you blink feels like the first and
last time you’ll ever see them; you try and soak up as much of the sublime
size, the vast sprawl of trees, and mysterious tugging at your soul.
The beach, on the other hand, has
the same amount of terrifying sublimity as mountains but is, I’d argue, more
joyful, more… happy. Usually you
experience the beach with people and together share the salty, vicarious sea
breeze with the unrelenting shrieks of crashing waves. That afternoon at Ocean beach was a perfect
way to begin the trip because it reminded us land-locked Iowans that indeed,
against our shocked disbelief, we had arrived in California. But it was still winter there, technically,
and the water was super cold. By the
time we had our drinks watching the sunset, the group wished we had brought our
sweatshirts.
The
next day, I began by driving my cousin to Point Loma Nazarene University, where
she works. It was during this car ride
that I admitted Erin and I had broken up but were, nonetheless, here in San
Diego together.
“What? Isn’t that super awkward?” Marie asked.
“Kinda,
but we talked about things before we left.
Besides, we know we’re going to get into an argument at some point,” I
replied with a shrug. It’s here I should
explain that these cousins and I didn’t get along the greatest when we were
younger. Every four years my mother’s
side of the family gathers for the Barz family reunion at some sort of private
residence or, previously, at the family cabin in Minnesota. We didn’t get along because when we tried
having fun and do “family activities” together, for the younger family members, antics would
escalate higher and higher until someone started crying. Practical jokes went to far when sprinkling
flour on people and sticking their fingers in warm water got involved, games
went to far when players got too physical, shit talking went to far when one
person would be the butt of jokes for more than 10 minutes, or accidents would
happen like dropping a couch on Megan. Things
had become a little better during the past two reunions, but I always felt some
sort of tension. Were we just going to
ignore those years and not talk about them?
Apparently, because Marie wasn’t one for awkward conversations and I was
simply enjoying their hospitality.
When
I arrived back at the house the group prepared and we set off for Torrey
Pines. Nothing could have prepared us
for what we encountered. Situated just
beyond the UC San Diego library, near the Torrey City Gliderport, the four of
us stumbled upon the 300 foot Torrey cliffs overlooking the Pacific. I was stunned. The ocean stretched into nothingness beyond
misty haze to the north and south. It
calmly melted with the western horizon, defined by a darker, greener blue than
the sky. Huge, cottony clouds drifted
above that might as well have been close enough for us to reach out and grab
on. With the strong sea wind in our
faces, paragliders took advantage as dozens wheeled up and over the
cliffs. Most never really strayed far
from land, while some executed exhilarating, speedy downward spirals towards
the waves below.
After
losing and then finding Immanuel’s phone, we headed to Ocean Beach in search of
fish tacos and a pier. Just south of
Mission Beach from yesterday, this was a slightly rougher beach and populated
with homeless, according to Auntie Jayne.
Immanuel and I found this to be true following the amazing fish tacos a
hole in the wall grill provided us. Sitting
on a bulkhead, finishing off the last half of my taco, a grungy short man
walked up and sat down as if he knew us.
“You
guys like to smoke bud?” he drawled. I
looked at Immanuel and he returned the expression.
“Um,
yeah, we do,” I replied sheepishly, doing a quick check to see if the fuzz was around.
“Nice,
so you guys wanna help a guy out so he can eat tonight? I got some here, you want all of it?”
hat-clad grungy man asked. Out of a
brown paper bag disguising his 40 ouncer, he produced the bag of weed. I was aware before leaving that certain areas
of California were known for easy access to marijuana, but I didn’t know it
would walk up and present itself.
Hat-clad grungy man’s comment about needing money to eat struck me, and
I wasn’t sure how to take it. He really
could need the money or it was just a tactic to make me feel bad. Regardless, by the time hat-clad grungy man
left, the temperature dropped and rain showers moved in.
Our
last night in San Diego was great, normal even.
Earlier we spent the day exploring La Jolla Cove, littered with seals
and sea lions sun bathing on the beach. Before
the group wandered back home, though, we returned again to Mission Beach for
drinks and a basket of fries. Everything
is much more expensive on the California coast, as you can imagine. Californians would balk at Wednesday’s dollar
drinks for sure. Everything seemed fine
while Auntie Jayne and co. fed us take out pizza with even more drinks. Things changed, however, when we entered the
hot tub. Erin and Riley left to take a
break after awhile, but when they came back, Erin had some things to say to
Immanuel and I. But mostly me. Aside from details that require more context
for this kind of essay, what she said basically came down to was that my treatment
of her over the past few days had been completely rude (somewhat true), she
wasn’t having any fun (lies), and the only reason she was upset was because she
cares (probably true). It made for an
awkward next morning on the bus ride to Los Angeles, but we talked and worked
things out. For a while at least.
The
four Iowans hit the ground running as soon as we disembarked from the
greyhound. Views through the large bus
windows provided a rather bleak picture of LA and the surrounding suburbs. Tiny homeless establishments were littered
throughout the landscape, congregated near those large cement flood passages,
especially under overpasses, and often in areas completely unexpected. Power lines and grey manufacturing facilities
filled our vision. These
less-than-hopeful sequences did little to ease my anxiety over a place to sleep
that night. Lack of planning on both
Erin and my part left us scrambling through Airbnb and Couchsurfing to find a
room. Luckily, there was one in a
hostel-like home, south of Korea Town.
An
uber driver from El Salvador took us from the Greyhound station directly to the
Chinese Theatre on Hollywood Boulevard.
Once there, we met Erin’s friend Tim who was, according to him and no
one else, a Hollywood producer working under some Universal Studios director
that he definitely did not have to get coffee for. Tim showed us around the area, and we quickly
realized you needed money to do most of things that looked fun. But even then they really didn’t look all that
great. I didn’t really care to have my
picture with some random street performer, take a tour through a theatre, get
on a crowded vehicle through the streets, or buy cheap souvenirs. Instead, we opted to go to a recording of @Midnight
with Chris Hardwick. That was actually
really awesome to be a part of, and Erin even won a water bottle for being the
best audience member.
That
night, we took another uber to Good Times at Davey Wayne’s, a literal hole in
the wall because you had to walk through a refrigerator to get inside. They served spiked sno cones and a variety of
mixed drinks. But we didn’t stay long,
and soon after leaving decided to head back to our little hostel in a rather
dangerous neighborhood of town. The rest
of LA was spent at Santa Monica pier, the surrounding beaches, and in transit
between there and where we were staying.
On Tuesday, notably, Riley, Erin, and I made the mistake (well, it was
Erin’s idea) of renting bikes and riding them all the way to our Airbnb and
then back to where we rented
them. We rode for 30 miles (there and
back) on the dangerous, traffic-filled streets of LA. But the bike lanes were pretty well laid out
and the bikes had lights, so it wasn’t quite as bad even though I would’ve
preferred a helmet.
I
say so little of LA because it was, for the four of us, our least favorite city
of the three we visited. The
interactions we had with people were subpar, things were considerably more
expensive than in San Diego, and before we left for another bus I got a little
homesick. (Erin and I also got in
another fight because she got drunk and I told her to shut up). Perhaps it was because of more not planning,
but there seemed to be only touristy activities, and those all cost money. However, the beaches were great and the
weather was perfect for everyday we went, which was… everyday. Florida spring breakers might have got a
better tan, but could they say they rented bikes and rode them through seedy
neighborhoods and down busy LA boulevards?
San
Francisco ended our journey up along California. It was my favorite part of the trip,
Immanuel’s as well, while Riley and Erin preferred San Diego. Immanuel also pulled through in booking us a
hotel in the Tenderloin when repeated searches through Airbnb yielded either
too expensive or wrongly dated rooms. It
was in San Fran that we saw the classic China town, the Fisherman’s wharf, ate
a phenomenal seafood dinner, visited the gay bars (the nightlife in San Fran
was the best of the three cities - by far), and almost ate at a deaf
pizzeria. But San Francisco was also the
place I learned that I didn’t want to live on the west coast. At least not yet. I felt and feel a stronger draw for New York
and the artists that call the city home. I also realized that travelling long distances
doesn’t need to be hard. You can easily
pack everything you need for 10 days, definitely more, into an even smaller bag
than what we used.
By Sunday we were
all ready to go back to Iowa, and we did make it after another cramped Spirit
ride. Erin and I haven’t gotten back
together, but during the trip she helped me understand that what I have to
offer the world is significant. That
even though my degree is only in English, I know I still have the determination
and attitude to contribute. Contribute
what? I don’t know. Truthfully, I’m not okay with not knowing. All
I know is that there’s something that I need
to do. But at the same time I am okay with it, not knowing, because if
college has taught me anything, it’s that I’m not the only one.
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