Northern and Southern California might as well be two different countries. Butterfinger and I just returned from our whirlwind tour of the Bay Area, and we now have our sights set on moving somewhere between Santa Cruz and San Francisco. All I can say is that Butterfinger was totally right - I really love it up there:) In just two days, most of which were spent in Grimace, I think we have really found a place that will work with our unique lifestyle, while being surrounded by other like-minded people also motivated to suceed. I can see how those words may come across as sounding overly idealistic and fantastical, but there really is no other way to put into words the positive change I experienced by just changing my geography by a couple hundred miles.
We left on Monday morning around 9 am, in an attempt to beat all of the San Diego and LA traffic, which ended up working pretty well. I started out driving, and we made it about 2 hours or so before we had to stop and refuel ourselves and Grimace. In the interest of time, we decided to take I-5 up to Santa Cruz, which could quite possibly be one of the most boring drives in all of North America. After you pass the hustle and bustle that is San Diego, the OC, and LA, you enter into an expansive alien-like landscape of high dunes and strange colored rock.
After the extra terrestrial terrain you enter into ‘the valley’. I guess valley is just a nice term for unbearably hot, dry, and flat place where only farmers and those with limited resources that have previously prevented them from moving, live. Needless to say there was not much to look at during this stretch of the adventure, but we were lucky enough to find some conservative republican radio nutjob to entertain us for a good two hours.
As we headed closer to Santa Cruz we drove through more coastal areas that resembled the African sahara. There were beautiful, low shrubs, and animals wandering freely throughout the hills. The land just continued to get more and more hilly as we continued west toward Santa Cruz, and Grimace was getting a little tired as we tried to make it up a few of the larger mountains.
As we got closer and closer we started seeing signs for Gilroy, which was a name we remembered from watching a Food Network special. For those of you that may have missed the award-winning Marc Summers production, the program was a feature on the town of Gilroy and its role in producing most of the US’s garlic supply. We knew we were almost in Gilroy when we could smell a faint hint of roasted garlic in the air (the garlic ice cream signs were also a pretty good indicator). When we finally reached the center of town we were stopped at a light, and all I can say is that now I think I finally understand why the dogs like to stick their heads out the window and sniff until they almost pass out. While waiting at this light I was huffing in the garlic smell so hard that it was burning my nostrils; it was that good.
Santa Cruz is a great little surfer town with a counterculture I have yet to experience anywhere else in all of my travels. Everyone is focused on eating well, and being well both physically and spiritually. Bikes and skateboards seemed to be the main modes of transportation in town, with walking and running a close second. Very open minded, very healthy, and very expensive. Living in Santa Cruz proper is probably out of our price range right now, but there are some great little places in the outlying areas of the city both along the coast and in the woods that could be good options.
We spent the night at a friend’s home, eating some great, wholesome food they prepared for us, and talking about life. No TV, no beer, no computers, and no bs; it was one of the best nights I have had in a long time.
After a surprisingly restful night sleeping on the floor we headed out to drive up the coast to San Francisco. After a 20 minute long excursion to try and find the Costco we knew was hidden somewhere along the road, we were fueled up and headed north along route 1. I would say the pictures speak for themselves, but even the pictures can not capture how amazing these landscapes actually are. This is just one of those things that everyone should do before they die.
The ride up the coast was about 2 hours, during which time we drove on the edge of cliffs, saw a WWII plane take off from a small landing strip, drove past the LPGA tournament grounds in Half Moon Bay, and saw the most glorious Taco Bell in America, perched on the side of a cliff in Pacifica, California. Upon arriving in San Fran we drove through SFSU’s campus, and made our way winding through the city streets until we ended up in Fisherman’s Wharf. Below you will see a picture of me with a friend I made at the wharf.
After eating some overpriced shrimp coctail, watching a homeless man sit behind branches so he could scare people as they walked by, and getting a $50 parking ticket, we were back on the road to drive through more of the city and check out different neighborhoods. We drove around for about 3 hours, during which time we came to the conclusion that there really is not a single area in all of Frisco that we would refuse to live in; I guess 4 years living in North Philly could do that to a person.
Conveniently right around rush hour was when we had decided that we had came, saw, and conquered, and were ready to head home to see the puppy dogs. Butterfinger drove the entire way home, all the way to Camp Pendelton, at which point he pulled over and promptly passed out. I slapped myself in the face a few times, put the windows down, and blasted the music until we got home about 40 minutes later.
So after reading this convoluted and slightly boring story you may be wondering, what’s the plan? To which all I can reply is stay tuned for more information.
October 2nd, 2008 | The House