Go west, young arantxa!

Highway 46, heading west on the Antelope Plain.

I just got back last week from a very quick (very truncated, I had to rush back a day early to beat the storm) visit down to Los Angeles. Back in December, I learned that my wonderful friend Paula would be in LA from NYC for the President's Day weekend, and that my parents were planning a trip to visit my sister in Seattle for that weekend as well and were looking for someone to take care of their dog, Rusty. What an excellent coincidence! I signed on to drive down to dogsit and see Paula,* too.

In the end, my parents never booked that trip, and I waited to leave Santa Cruz until late Saturday morning. I always take the 101 all the way down (I know every California Highway Patrol hiding spot from Santa Cruz to Los Angeles. 101 all the way!), but traffic was so bad that, in a moment of desperation, I slipped onto the 46 in Paso Robles and jogged over to the 5 in order to catch Paula's party later that evening.

What a weird and wonderful decision that was.

Oil pumps and tumbleweeds along the 46. 

There are certain towns and strips of highway -- even entire counties -- in California that, since we were little kids, my mom would make us lock the car doors in while passing through while on road trips. It makes us laugh now, but my mom was reacting directly to an entire catalogue of highly publicized cases of child molestation (Kern County), kidnappings and serial murders (Merced, Modesto, San Bernardino and Riverside Counties), endemic drug addiction and its correlating violences (Antelope Valley, Inland Empire et al), and general "sordidness" and infamy that has stereotyped so many rural and desert communities in the state.

I like to think of myself as a self-assured and independent person,* and I have plenty of experience travelling internationally on my own, but there are still certain carefully stipulated rules that I follow when it comes to lone, long driving trips: fully charged cell phone, large bottle of water, gas stops in large towns, no highway rest stops, no gratuitous side trips, no scenic drives. And, lastly, no Interstate 5. On the road, I am Little Red Riding Hood and I stay the course -- until this past trip, that is.

Driving the 5 itself, once I got to it, was tedious, boring, long, and filled with insane people tearing down the highway at 90+ miles per hour, but it was the jog along Highway 46 that put me on red alert. As my Yiya would say: METE MIEDO. Specifically, Lost Hills mete miedo.

The small drilling town of Lost Hills is, of course, scary in that same way that the wolf is scary in the Little Red Riding Hood fairy tale: sinisterly attractive in the way the Uncanny always is, dangerous and seductive and ugly. The landscape is monstrous in its very nature: arid, barren, corrosive and corroded in its hyper-industrialized mechanizations. Driving through its oil fields, I thought to myself: this is like a weird and horrible Steinbeck novel that I've never read. Then I realized: No, it's Upton Sinclair's Oil! personified, 90 years evolved. Post-industrial and post-apocalyptic. Have you seen the great and horrible There Will Be Blood? It is brutal and beautiful and it is this place. Amazing.

I couldn't drive fast enough through the high winds and dust and miles of oil pumps, passing the tumbleweed and the gas station and the strange little school district building. I am the perfect abductee victim! A young woman driving a Prius! Mindlessly meandering alone along the high desert plain! I am tasty and delectable serial killer bait! 

But I went back! Over my short weekend stay in Los Angeles, I read a great article by Richard Manning on North Dakota's fracking boom in this month's Harper's Magazine. I kept thinking about the Lost Hills oil field, not one of the largest in California but one of the most productive, and its natural gas reserves; the weird little isolated community struggling along beside it; its scary alone-ness and desert desolation. I decided to retrace my route back up to Santa Cruz and stop in Lost Hills and take some photographs.

Here they are. Aren't they something?

I originally intended to pull over along the highway a couple of times while driving through town and the oil fields. But, frankly, I'm still my mother's daughter, and I lost my nerve. The winds were gusting and I felt too exposed. I snapped photos blindly with my iPod as I drove along, eventually putting the camera away when I had to quickly swerve out of the way of the third tumbleweed to bulldoze out onto the highway.

While driving, I started listening to an audio book I had downloaded at my parents' house before leaving: Hampton Sides' 2007 text Blood and Thunder: The Epic Story of Kit Carson and the Conquest of the American West. It's right in line with another history of the American West I had downloaded a couple of years ago -- Empire of the Summer Moon: Quanah Parker and the Rise and Fall of the Comanches, the Most Powerful Indian Tribe of American History (MOUTHFUL) by S.C. Gwynne (2011) -- only, frankly, better. Because I'm a snob, I attribute it to the fact that, though both authors have History BAs from prestigious Ivy Leagues, Sides considers himself a historian whereas Gwynne identifies, professionally, as a journalist. When the rhetoric got problematic and weird in Gwynne's history of the Comanche,*** I first let it pass because he wasn't an academic and then eventually stopped reading/listening altogether. Nearing the end of Book I of Sides' text, I have yet to run into this problem of what I feel to be an unbalanced critical approach.

But I digress: listening to this history of the American Mountain Man, the Mexican-American War, the invasion and conquest of the American West, and the highly polemical and problematic imagining of race and ethnicity in the Southwest in particular, I drove from Lost Hills all the way into Paso Robles. And as I listened (with great interest, might I add) I reflected on all the other kaleidoscope images that make up my imaginary of the American West: the old Autry westerns of the 40s and 50s, and the spaghetti westerns of the 60s and 70s; novels and short stories by those beloved authors who I tie directly to California and the West like Cormac McCarthy, Annie Proulx, John Steinbeck, Joan Didion; those long and yearly road trips from my childhood, during which we explored every continental state west of the Rockies; forays to roadside tourist traps in the Colorado Desert with my grandfather; Pee-Wee's Big Adventure; the Manson Family; the Donner Party; Neil Young and Tom Russel songs; Cabeza de Vaca wandering the Sonoran Desert.

I love the West in all of its kitsch, its horror, its Good, its Bad, and its Ugly.

I decided to stop for dinner before turning north onto the 101 in Paso Robles, and went off in search of Good Ol' Burger, a nutty looking tourist trap in downtown Paso Robles that my dad and I had stopped in for lunch on a drive up to Santa Cruz nearly twelve years ago. The weird shack was gone, as you can see, but the burgers are still good. They built the new place over ten years ago, apparently.

* Paula is nearly 6 months pregnant -- surprise! I wanted to see her before the little one (who I'll have the pleasure of meeting in July) arrives in June. 

** Okay, let's get real: I meant "woman." Travelling alone is definitely a sexed issue. 

*** Judge-y qualifiers like "primitive," "savage," "uncivilized" -- as well as a bold contention that the Comanche (pre-horse) had, literally, no culture whatsoever -- eventually turned me off completely.

Auspicious Visit

It's been a crazy ass week. I had my interview on Monday and suffered through intense angst (ANGST) until I heard back on Wednesday (I got the job, SURPRISE!*), culminating in a total energy crash and strange and unwarranted general malaise the following morning. It's a good thing Lisa and Mark were driving down for a visit from the East Bay -- and that they had thought to surprise me by secretly bringing along Alana, who I hadn't seen in a year? In over a year? In any case: my general malaise disappeared tout de suite.

This super tall silvery, velvety shrub/tree elicited screams. SCREAMS.

What a wonderful, wonderful surprise. I got to celebrate the new job, my birthday (and Lisa's!) with some of my most favorite people. This birthday feels like a milestone for me -- I'm entering a new stage in my teaching career, which is allowing me to save and prepare for some big, "adult" expenses** -- and I can't think of any other people I would rather be spending it with, even if belatedly.

Touched it. 

Friday we drove up to campus, I signed some forms at HR, and we visited the UCSC Arboretum. In all my years affiliated with the university (first as a student, now as a lecturer), I'd never been to the arboretum. What a shame that it's taken me so long to visit; it's absolutely gorgeous. We wandered from garden to garden, talking about politics and power (a conversation started the night before at a taqueria that continued for the entirety of the visit), touching absolutely everything we came across. Every bush, every flower, every tree, every pinecone. We touched everything. And it was worth the $5 entry fee, well worth it. It was even worth the mild sunburn (and corresponding, mild crankiness) I developed later on.

Touching it. 

These are a couple of the few snapshots taken early in our walk. I didn't take down any notes on the plants I photographed, but I do remember that they were all located in the Australia/New Zealand gardens.

We stumbled upon a huge flock? crew? gaggle? of California quail on the way out, but I was too busy watching them roadrun away from us to take out my camera. No reason to become inordinately upset; I have a wonderful Super Cuchi post (of the avian persuasion) to share tomorrow regardless.

***
* Thanks for the woo-woo, by the way. It absolutely worked!
** Okay, I'll tell you: it's a car, I'm saving up for a new car. Don't tell the Little Green Car, it'll become horribly jealous and stop working just to teach me a lesson. You think I kid, how little you know!

Travels with Mr. Coe: Carmel-By-The-Sea

Have you ever visited a place so ridiculously over-the-top fancy that it doesn't seem like real life? A place where nobody seems to work and everybody drives really, really slowly in expensive cars, and buys exorbitantly over-priced foodstuffs just because they can? A place where you ask for "inexpensive lunch options" and are recommended a Michelin-starred restaurant that only has a three-course prix fixes menu? Welcome to Carmel-By-The-Sea, a "seaside village" that operates in its own dimension of reality.

Source

I had a couple of errands to run down in the Monterey area this weekend, so I decided to bring Mr. Coe along and make a real outing of it. Part of Carmel's charm -- and what makes it so attractive to me, at least -- is that it's outrageously dog-friendly. Dogs are allowed at most restaurants/cafés/wineries with outdoor seating, the Carmel Valley hosts a couple of awesome dog-friendly hiking/outdoor recreation spots, and Carmel Beach is dog-friendly as well. Off-leash dog-friendly. You have to deal with ridiculous WASP-y rich people in sweater sets and khaki shorts and that horrible feeling that everybody's secretly judging your junky old Toyota Tercel and half-feral dog, but you know what? SO WHAT. Off-leash dog-friendly.

Excitable labradoodle, Carmel Highlands in the background.

It was a beautiful day down on the shore, as you can see. Carmel's beach really is breathtaking; you come out of the pine grove and are met with beautiful white sands and turquoise surf. Can you imagine what it must have been like for Junipero de la Serra to sail into this shallow little bay in the mid 1700s? It's no wonder the Jesuits established one of the first California missions here; the site is gorgeous.*

Asilomar State Park at the point, über-fancy Pebble Beach golf course further inland.

The beach was jam-packed with families. Roscoe and I must been a weird and wonderful sight to behold; Roscoe whining and crying and running in circles out of sheer ecstasy, me tromping with my beach chair (from REI! super light-weight, with a shoulder strap! I keep it in the trunk of my car!), wearing my big white sun hat and my finest "weekend wear"**, jacket and long pants. Everybody was wearing bathing suits; the only parts of my body getting sun were my feet and wrists. VICTORIAN CHIC. We sat alone and I read a book and Roscoe guarded me. The only other person I spied who wasn't part of a group or (human) couple was this shirtless dude wandering around the beach with a poofy lap-dog in his arms, drinking a bottled beer and singing to himself. I wish I'd taken a picture, what a weirdo.

Roscoe asking me "CAN I GO. CAN I GO CHASE THE DOGS. CAN I GO." and me responding
"WHAT HAVE I BEEN TELLING YOU TO GO AHEAD AND DO FOR THE PAST TWO HOURS.
GO AND LET ME READ MY PERIOD PIECE MURDER MYSTERY/POLITICAL INTRIGUE
AND CRIME THRILLER PLEASE."

After hanging out down at the beach, Roscoe and I walked around the downtown shopping district for a bit. Let me tell you: Roscoe was the BELLE BEAU OF THE BALL of downtown Carmel that afternoon. Everybody commented on how pretty handsome he was, and how well behaved he was, and how cute he was, and how all-around super great he was. And it was true, he was wonderful. He heeled as we walked along the sidewalks and sat at every intersection before we crossed. He was very polite with the old rich people who stopped to pet and talk to him, and didn't even freak when a baby grabbed his tail (I did stink eye the parent, though). 

Roscoe really does feel right at home in Carmel. He's most comfortable in either wild and desolate landscapes or laps of luxury and comfort. Go figure. 

* Though I have a heart-felt love and appreciation for the California missions and their history, I respect and honor that these are also sites of mourning for the indigenous peoples of California, representative of centuries of enslavement, suffering, trauma, and (arguably) genocide. A subject of interest for another blog post, another day.

** Yes, I'm self-conscious when I go to Carmel. Yes, I was wearing my best "casual" clothes. Yes, I applied makeup before leaving the house. Yes, it all ran down my face once sunscreen got in my eyes at the beach.

Kitchen (mis)Adventure: Fresh Hummus, Sad Carrots

There's nothing easier than whipping together a plate of hummus. Well, sure there is, but so it seems. I made the latest batch below late last week with my trusty Osterizer blender (it's older than I am!) and my also trusty copy of How To Cook Everything. I followed Mark Bittman's basic recipe and then added to it as I blended. I ended up using twice the prescribed amount of lemon juice, lots of pepper, and smoked paprika. It still turned out a little on the bland side (sad), but I prefer even bland hummus made fresh to the store-bought kind*. Next time I'll cut back on the tahini, which ended up being too overpowering, and try a couple other things to pack in the flavor -- pine nuts blended in as well? Vinegar? Can you add vinegar to hummus? Something was missing, but what I cannot say. 

We were super busy gallivanting around and adventuring last week, so I didn't get a chance to enjoy my hummus until yesterday afternoon. I pulled out a bag of carrots and started munching away as I worked at the computer. 

Something was off. I knew that the hummus wasn't the most exciting I'd ever made, but there was something... wrong. I chewed and chewed and chewed and frowned and started to feel something sinister and strange as I looked down at the bit of carrot in my hand. It was weathered and shriveled and unhappy. The carrots were stale. I couldn't even remember buying the bag, they'd been sitting in the back of the veggie crisper in the fridge for so long. They tasted like sad, little desiccated pieces of cardboard. There was no life left in those pale and dry roots. I threw them away. SO SAD. 

Speaking of gallivanting, here's a photo from last week. Carlos and Claudia came to visit, and we ended up putting over 150 miles on my car and over 450 miles on a friend's car with all our adventuring, seeing about a quarter of the California coast in the process. Super fun, super exhausting, and super sunburnt and happy. 

Savannah-Chanelle Vineyards, Santa Cruz Mountains, photo by Claudia

* Jason begs to differ. Next time, he can make the hummus.

Walking with Mr. Coe

Roscoe and I went on a nice, long walk through the neighborhood early this morning. We decided to turn up Love Creek Road in order to stay cool as the morning got warmer, and stuck with it until the road narrowed to a single lane. The Santa Cruz Mountains are full of weird little nooks and crannies -- hollows and gulches -- full of strange tales, abandoned camps, ghosts, memories. Love Creek may be one of the most storied of them all. 

Approaching Love Creek Road, in Ben Lomond.

 It's a beautiful walk. The steep gulch walls provide near-constant shade for redwoods, moss, and ferns to grow, the road crosses the creek a handful of times, and there are quite a few nice little (and not so little) cabins to ogle at along the way.

Mr. Coe likes this walk especially, I think mainly because it's as close as he can get to going on a hike without hopping in the car and going to a local state park or wildlife reserve. No sidewalk to stick to, lots of stinky spots and bugs and bushes and undergrowth to tromp through right at the edge of the road. 

Roscoe, mountain scout

Though he does have to stay on leash.

"EXCUSE ME, CAN WE CONTINUE PLEASE?"

Love Creek, like most of the San Lorenzo Valley, is full of weird and wonderful signage. Especially "No Trespassing" signs. Like, everywhere. The last house up before the road narrows has an amazing road sign nailed up to a pole in the yard that reads "15 MPH ASSHOLE". I really wanted to take a picture, but was too scared to actually pull out my camera and do so lest I infuriate these people with such aggressive taste in yard decor. 

Love Creek residents like to clearly mark their PRIVATE PROPERTY. 

I didn't notice the sign below until we passed it for the second time on our way back down the creek towards town. I stood there looking at it for a long time, and just couldn't figure it out. What was there to witness? Had the evidence of the (maybe) witnessed event/thing been taken away? Was it the sand bags? Was there a slide? Was there a lot of water? Was it something else entirely? Was it an accident? Was it vandalism? Did it happen at night? Are they mad? Are they sad? Is there a reward?

So many questions.

I'd like to write more about Love Creek in the future; I think it's a super interesting place with a lot of valuable stories to tell. In the mean time, I'll leave a final photo of Roscoe checking out the toy box in the clearing right where the road narrows to pique your interest. 

Rooms (and a beach chair) With A View

I really do love my little office on campus. It has crazy blue retro carpeting, a matching blue filing cabinet (locked, and missing the keys, unfortunately... it's purely decorative now), and has, what seems like, all the original furniture and shelving from when the building was first built in the late 1960s.

The best part, though, is the big plate glass window running along the outer wall, just below the ceiling.  I took the photo above last Friday, looking up while seated in front of my laptop at my desk. What a view, right? Redwoods and a bright patch of sky right outside the window. This is Santa Cruz (and the university campus) at its best.

Last Friday was, of course, every campus educator and employee's least favorite holiday: 

4/20. 

This year, it formed part of a trifecta of awesome (or awful, depending on how you see it, of course): 

1. 4/20

2. Friday

3. The first day of absolutely gorgeous, high 70s, clear skies of the spring

This is a recipe for lots and lots and lots of tourists from out of town, both on campus at the university,  and downtown and at the boardwalk and beaches. Which brings a lot of traffic, people driving poorly, and young people wandering in and out of the street, super high and super stupid. I see it as awful. I also sound like an old person. 

I'm not that old. I'm just over it.

I wasn't going to let the stoned tourists ruin it for me completely, though, so a friend and I went out for a post-work drink at the only place we could think of that wouldn't be over-run by out-of-towners and students. The bar of the super fancy hotel at the foot of the wharf. Nice view, as you can see. 

The following day was brighter and shinier and warmer, and Santa Cruz was just clogged to capacity with people from over the hill. I drove into town with Roscoe to go to the dog beach, but ended up driving north out of town on highway 1. I drove until I saw the first beach with space for a dog to run and play, over the county line, past Año Nuevo State Park. I drove all the way to Bean Hollow. 

We spent a lovely afternoon on the beach. I took this photo right before we left, just as the fog was rolling in from the sea. Perfect Brontë beach weather at the end of a visit to my favorite California Gothic beach. I got to drive the extra 5 minutes north to Pescadero and pick up a loaf of Arcangeli Grocery's famous artichoke bread, too. A successful Saturday drive to the dog beach.