Day 1, Saturday: A literally literary ending to my stay in the City of Literature
I was robbed on my last night in Seattle, my car windows smashed. It was also broken into on my first. Poetry sucks. The last time around, all that was taken was a worn-out wallet with credit cards and a driver's license, all about to expire in a few weeks, my laptop and passport left behind. The thieves were even kind enough to relock the car and hide the keys, pilfered from my gym locker, underneath the vehicle where they couldn't be seen except by a desperate owner searching the ground in the hopes that they had been dropped somewhere.
I believe, I think, that they didn't want to hurt me personally in any way. I could easily cancel the credit cards. Reprogramming car keys would have cost upward of $400 and require me to tow the vehicle, had I not had spare keys, or uber around until I could find them.
The second time around, the perpetrators weren't quite as magnanimous. Fortunately, I found a glass shop that was able to fix it that day because this trip would not be stopped. They told me had I called any later, they would have been fully booked. I left the Seattle that afternoon barely an hour later than planned, with the sun still high in the sky.
Curiously, the thieves stole only a suitcase full of clothing, a blender, and a bag of glass tupperware, as far as I can tell (the rest I'll see when I unpack the Meus in Los Angeles). Perhaps they were scared off, or only in desperate need. In any case, it could have been far worse. I hope they needed those things more than I did. Whether these thieves also had the intent to do no personal harm to me, I don't mind cleaning out the closet and starting fresh with this move. In the words of my old friend Rod, "This is God saying we need a new look."
Day 2, Sunday: Coasting down Oregon
Sunday was for driving down the Oregon coast. Some travelers argue this is actually the best sliver of the Pacific Coast Highway. Compared to Washington and California, the land is less built up, and you won't find Bear Flag style piers and neon lights spoiling the geography. The road hugs the coast for pretty much the entirety of the state. I started my day at the Tillamook dairy factory, wondering to myself why eating ice cream for breakfast didn't feel unfamiliar. It was the best ice cream I had had since moving to the Pacific Northwest, since it wasn't lavender or basil flavored. Vive la chocolate chip.
I overshot the landing at Cannon Beach the night prior, with the sun long gone over the horizon. The fault was mine entirely, half a dozen too many sudden stops at the side of the road for a vista, the second common theme of the trip. The first, come to find, was the cows, who became my most enduring companions. The sound of the ocean was nice, however, and the beach was dotted with hearty visitors huddled around fires. This gave me a chance to test the night mode on my phone, having revived a 3-year-old Samsung S7 with the Google Camera APK to force it to hold out until 5G arrived.
|Spoiled Sea Lions|
I couldn't have asked for a sunnier drive, and the six hours passed by more quickly than most 30 minute drives in less stunning locales. Perhaps because I could scarcely go thirty minutes without stopping to see what new rock formation I was passing. The most notable stop was America's largest sea cave, where visitors can actually take an elevator down to the cave to gaze upon sea lions for whom that studio aparment just wasn't cutting it. And yes, they installed the elevator during the migratory season when the sea lions weren't present.
Day 3, Monday: I haven't seen trees this gigantic since I was little
I actually arrived to the Jedediah Smith grove around sunset on Sunday. "Proceed about one mile to your destination," the voice inside my head unit said. Any cellular signal had long ago slipped through the grasp of my phone. I stared down what appeared to be a dead end dirt road, past three homes inhabited by what I assume are very independently minded folks. I gave the Samsung another try. Are you there, Google? It's me, Aaron. But, almost nonchalantly, eight hundred years of old growth suddenly appeared. It was beginning to get dark, but a schedule is a schedule, so onward I went. In case you're wondering, an old growth forest is a magical place to be alone at sunset (when you have plenty of gas).
Monday I reached Crescent City in northern California. Ask a true Californian and they'll tell you that San Francisco is not northern California, it's the Bay Area. Eventually I would arrive in Southern California, because have Meus, will travel. I had been to the Sequoias in the central valley many times, but never to the famous redwoods in the upper reaches of the state. I find that these trees share a similarity in that they are not seen as much as they are felt. Go too long between visits, and the trees will diminish in your memories. It's only immersed in a sea of them that you will be reminded of how incredible they truly are.
I started Monday morning at the Foothill Trail, a pathway so flat I fear trail may be a misnomer. After directing me to the trailhead, a park employee looked around, paused, and told me to leave my car in the thirty minute parking space where it was. "It's Monday, you won't see many people here today."
|LA Paul Bunyon|
The next stop was the Lady Bird trail, higher into the mountains and partly shrouded in clouds. I have little to say because nothing could capture the beauty of these giants. They simply are something felt more than seen. My fellow hikers were mostly retirees. I assume this was because it was a Monday; It'd be a shame to wait an entire lifetime to see something like this. We may not even be able to. A few struck up conversation, but mostly we communicated via a morse code of smiles and gasps.
|Dead and alive|
From the Lady Bird Trail, I drove south another hour, stopping in Eureka for a quick plate of salmon and oysters at Humboldt Bay Provisions. Humboldt Bay is famous for its oyster harvest, and I will say that the oysters were that sort of meal against which all future oysters will be measured. I spent the night in Ferndale, a small Victorian town based, yes, on the dairy industry. I stayed at the Gingerbread Hotel, an ornate Victorian mansion that had been converted from a hospital and now served as a bed and breakfast. Only three rooms were occupied, so the innkeeper told me to feel free to explore the other rooms. The aesthetic could have been Steinbeck's inspiration for the Ames Brothel in East of Eden. Because I needed to sleep that night, I decided not to ask whether the inn had any lingering guests. "But Aaron," you say, "The innkeeper died years ago, and the inn has been abandoned ever since!" Which would explain how such a sumptuous breakfast had no affect on me whatsoever.
|Me, yes, inside a tree|
Follow the Pacific Coast Highway from Olympic National Park to San Diego, and you'll go from rainforests, to beaches, to strip malls. What you won't see is an 25-mile stretch of land where the PCH cuts inward, avoiding a particularly rugged area now served only by a rough one-land surface road. Ferndale is often considered a jumping off point for this region, and after the aforementioned breakfast, I set off to see if the coast could be found.
On my way out of the coast, I passed through Petrolia, a town so named for the industry that would eventually mean that Los Angeles is still the most oil-producing urban region in the country. I expected to speed my way through the Humboldt Redwoods State Park, but came to a clearing where all the cars ahead of me and behind me seemed to disappear, and pulled over because I found myself unable to do anything but stare upward. The burst of redwoods around me reminded me of the the annual Independence Day fireworks along the Charles River Esplanade in Boston, when the most stunning display comes right at the end, right after you thought the show was over.
|More cows in beautiful places|
Days 5, 6, and 7: I met my heart in San Francisco
Wednesday, I drove south through Mendocino, and into the Bay. Ernest was flying in from San Antonio to meet me, and as luck would have it (for me, anyway), his flight was delayed. This gave me time to pull off the road for one requisite photo, and to clear the front seat. Thanks to the lightening of my load at the start of the trip, I now had enough space that my boyfriend could actually fit into the passenger seat.
|How many times am I going to take this picture|
On Thursday, I brought Ernest to
|Did you know if you eat the beans one at a time, the calories don't count?|
|Beans waiting to be counted. Just kidding|
|Me and Ernest!|
. Climb up a few steps and you'll find yourself in a clearing where, due to the topography, you can't see the roads above or below you, but you can see the bridge. Of course, not every city has been blessed with the geography and climate of San Francisco (say what you will about the coldest winters and summers, but the fog rolling in over the bridge is among the most evocative sights I have ever seen). Still, San Francisco has played this card to its every aesthetic advantage, even
|Golden Prius, Golden Hour, Golden Coast|
|Big Sur. That waterfall has been going forever|
San Luis Obispo is probably best known for its beautiful beaches and vineyards, as well as the agriculture a bit more inland. What it is less known for is that SLO is another oil producing region of California. In fact, you'll catch reference to it in There Will Be Blood. As I write this, I realize I am making my way through the industries of California-oil, aerospace, tech, and entertainment.
Day 9: Pacific Coast my way
On Sunday, I arrived. Monday, I start work. For Los Angeles, I refer you to this post.
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