Wow, has it really been three weeks since my last post? I am really sorry to have left you guys in the dark for so long, but time has really been flying for me out here. It’s hard to believe I landed in California almost two months ago! Well, brace yourself…this is going to be a long one!
I had been worried that when I got out here I would be bored on the weekdays, since I can only work so much and there is a lot of free time between 6PM and when I usually fall asleep. Oh, how wrong I was, and thankfully so. Between my Stanford friends and folks I’ve met in San Francisco, every day is full of surprises even after I’ve clocked out at work.
Three Thursdays ago, I drove down to Santa Cruz to see a band called 311 perform a show at the Catalyst night club. A few nights before the show, my friend Eric, with whom I went skiing a couple weeks ago, called me up and asked me to do a rather strange favor, or at least it seemed so at the time. He had met a girl recently in New Orleans, whose friend was flying up from southern California to go to the same concert we were going. Eric had never met this girl, nor had I, but she needed a ride from the airport to the show. I must admit I was somewhat apprehensive about picking up a random person from the airport that neither of us had ever met before and then riding with them all the way down to Santa Cruz. I once picked up some fellow concertgoer-hitchhikers after Bonnaroo in 2005, drove them nearly all the way to the Nashville airport, and thought practically nothing of it. Perhaps I am getting a little more uptight in my old age? Anyway, the afternoon of the concert, I left work, drove to the San Jose Airport, and picked up this random girl. The person who was waiting for me on the curb was the last person I expected to be meeting. As it turns out, the random girl is Julie, an accountant from Orange County, in her thirties, who would be attending her 137th 311 show to date. Wow. She scored some bonus points with me for having a leopard print suitcase in tow.
I tossed the luggage in the trunk and off we sped, down the windy route 17 that connects the somewhat bland and sprawling city of San Jose with the very interesting and eclectic oceanfront city of Santa Cruz. On the way, Julie and I exchanged some really great conversation. She is a very friendly, bubbly, and outgoing girl and I was delighted to be in her company. By the time we had arrived at our destination, I was really glad to have picked her up. We swung into a Taqueria by the boardwalk for a quick burrito. Julie, however, is of Mexican descent and decided to give my friend Eric and I a tour of Mexican food. By the time we were completely and utterly stuffed with food, the table was still covered with half full plates of deliciousness. I had a tummy full of carne asada and horchata, so I was quite happy. We moved onto the concert, which turned out to be really fun. I hadn’t seen 311 in concert since my high school days, but they are still as great a band as back then. This time however, I wasn’t at the Nissan Pavilion in Virginia, some 100 yards or more from the stage. The venue in Santa Cruz was narrow and deep and I managed to secure a nice place to stand very near the stage along one wall. It just so happened that I was right next to some gigantic ear drum-destroying speakers, but hey, I’m young and invincible, right? Towards the end of the concert, I was approached by a good looking latino boy with a hairstyle that can best be described, I believe, as a faux-hawk. As it turns out, he had secretly quizzed some of my friends standing nearby on my sexual orientation, and came over to introduce himself when he found out I was gay. I do not typically get approached by guys in public, and especially not in a place like this, so I was pretty surprised. The fella seemed friendly and not particularly sketchy, so we exchanged numbers and went on our merry ways. After the concert I took Julie to her hotel in Santa Clara and headed home to Sunnyvale.
On Saturday I met up with the boy from the show, who is named Marco. He is a pretty cool guy who has lived in San Jose all his life. He works as a special education assistant and has a very interesting personality. I met him in the early afternoon at his place and we drove across town to meet some of his friends. When we had all assembled, we piled into the car and headed down to a great park called Uvas Canyon. After an adventurous and windy ride up into the mountains that happened to take us through a Swedish summer getaway resort (seriously), we arrived at the park. While nothing about the park was terribly exciting, there were lots of trails up through the woods that provided us with some pretty decent photo opportunities, along with plenty of good uphill exercise. Some streams meandered along the paths, occasionally dropping into picturesque waterfalls that were gushing with cool water. I have to admit that I have no clue where this water comes from, since I have scarcely seen a drop of precipitation since I arrived in this state and I didn’t think these mountains were anywhere near tall enough to have winter snowfall. Something to ponder, I suppose. We followed a trail through the shady woods, up what I assume to be one of the sides of Uvas Canyon. We occasionally encountered other people, although probably less than a dozen in several hours of walking. The most memorable fellow hiker was probably a tiny Chinese woman, who I spotted wearing the infamous olive drab IDF t-shirt as she clung for dear life to some saplings while she descended the narrow trail we were on. I had to wonder where she got that shirt from, but I shrugged and moved along. We stopped for a quick breather when we had reached the top, and I took the opportunity to scarf down a couple protein bars and snap a few quick photos. While we were waiting, I tried one or two of Marco’s prunes, which turned out to be surprisingly delicious. I can’t believe I just said prunes were delicious!
We trotted back to the parking lot and had a leisurely drive back into San Jose. One of Marco’s students was participating in the Special Olympics at a middle school in Santa Clara, so we swung by to catch some of the action. I must admit that I never imagined when I woke up that morning that I would end up in a school gym watching a Special Olympics basketball game, but I just decided to try to enjoy the unusual situation I was in, smile, and sit quietly. By the way, those kids can really play ball.
After the game, we headed back to Marco’s place and I got my car. I cruised back to my house by way of Chipotle, for a quick Burrito Bol to go. I fell quickly into a food coma after stuffing myself with rice, beans, and barbacoa (mmmm!) and before I knew it I was very near sleep. As I drifted off, a part of me must have realized that I was about to doze off at 8pm on a Saturday night and that I only have so many Saturdays out here in California, because I somehow found the strength to drag myself out of bed and make a phone call.
The person I called is named Marcus. He is a friend of my friend Marc Weil from RIT. Marc gave me his number when he heard I was coming out here to the Bay Area so that I would have a contact in the San Francisco gay world. Marcus lives in the beautiful neighborhood of Noe Valley in San Francisco, right up the street from the Castro District (SF’s gayborhood). Marcus and I arranged to meet around 11 at a club in the SOMA district known as The Stud. I like this club because the music is pretty decent, it is not too full of old guys, and the Red Bull Vodkas are only 4 dollars (and I am cheap!). I am not going to go too in depth about the juicy details of my evening, mostly because you have either already heard them from me over the phone or simply do not care to, but I will just say that I met lots of friendly people and leave it at that. Not wanting particularly to drive back to Sunnyvale in the wee hours of the morning, Marcus extended an invitation to sleep on his couch, which I happily accepted. We went back to his place and ate Burger King while I quizzed him on what life is like as a gay man in his thirties living in San Francisco. After some interesting conversation, I curled up in the couch and passed out.
I awoke much too early, mostly because of the vast amount of light being shined into my eyes by the eastward facing windows in Marcus’ living room. I couldn’t be too upset because once I got up and looked out through the blinds, I was greeted with one of the best views of San Francisco I’ve seen to date. It’s pretty tough to see all the good stuff in San Fran all at once, mostly because of the topography of the land, but I could make out a lot of the good stuff, including the Transamerica Pyramid and the Bay Bridge, along with plenty of other recognizable landmarks. I was so inspired that I shot the panorama below so that you can see for yourself. I think you can click on it for a bigger view.
Being that it was Sunday, we went out for brunch and then wandered through the sunny Castro. While the really interesting part of the neighborhood is only 2 blocks long, there is still a lot for a young and relatively unexposed gay guy like myself to be surprised by. And I don’t mean all the sex shops and underwear stores. There’s nothing terribly astounding about those to me anymore. What got me most wide eyed was simply that I was for the first time in a noticeably predominantly gay place where it was so acceptable to be who I am. While I can’t say that the Castro instantly feels like home to me and I don’t imagine it ever fully will, I can say that a part of me feels pretty connected to it. I don’t expect many of you to be able to relate to this emotion, so I will choose not to ramble on too much about it. I will say that it’s really nice to know that there is a place in the world where rainbow flags adorn every lamp post and I can feel like I am not necessarily in the minority.
The rest of the afternoon was spent strolling through some fancy stores in Union Square, including the expansive (and expensive!) Banana Republic flagship store that I have been waiting practically my whole life to see. It is something else, that is for certain. I wasn’t feeling terribly inspired to shop though, so we walked around a while longer and then headed to happy hour back in the Castro. After having a vodka tonic or two and meeting some interesting characters, I decided to call it a night and head back to Sunnyvale.
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The only notable thing about the week was the first installment of a seven week wine tasting class I am enrolled in at a wine shop in nearby Palo Alto. Through Dan, I met a Stanford girl whose father owns this wine shop, and it just so happened that they had recently decided to start giving wine classes in the evening. Although the class was intended only for Stanford seniors, I was extended an invitation to sign up, which I graciously accepted. While I have taken two wine classes before at RIT, I am always excited to take new ones, mostly because of the different perspective I can gain from different teachers. Also, it is nice to have the opportunity to keep trying new wines and to hone my wine related skills (whatever that means). As it turns out, there are two instructors for the class of twelve students, both of whom bring a wealth of knowledge and experience from the wine world into our class. I am glad to be back into a class of some sort, since I like to be around young people and to have the opportunity to learn, especially on the topic of wine.
When the weekend arrived, so did some exceptionally warm weather. I headed to Marcus’s place around 11 and after some pregaming, we did a little bar hopping in the Castro. I had a fabulous time sipping cocktails and running into a surprisingly large number of familiar faces, as we made our way through the packed clubs. San Francisco has a surprisingly early last call of around 1:30, so we were sitting down having late night munchies by around 2:15. With full stomachs, we headed back to Marcus’s and I crashed on the couch, feeling pretty satisfied with my evening. I remembered to close the blinds before I fell asleep this time.
I still awoke at a very early 10am, considering that I had passed out sometime after 4. Life in the fast lane I guess? My day mostly consisted of wandering around the Castro and lounging around in the 80 degree sun in Mission-Dolores Park, a few blocks away. Dan came into town in the late afternoon and met Marcus. We all hung out and talked for a while and then Dan and I headed across town to the charming neighborhood of Potrero Hill to check out a sushi place he was a fan of called Umi. Let’s just say that after experiencing their sashimi and maki, I am a fan too. This was among some of the best sushi I have ever had, and I have had my fair share. I won’t go into too much detail on the meal, mostly because I will start drooling, but I will say that the menu is very original and the ingredients were extremely fresh. To my parents: we should definitely eat here when you visit!
Saturday night concluded with a visit to The Stud, a club which is quickly becoming my favorite place to party in San Fran. In terms of a place to go and dance, it is really nothing compared to some of the places I have been in the east, but it certainly does the trick and there are plenty of friendly people to chat and dance with. When the place began to thin out, Dan and I decided to call it a night. We hopped in the Mazda and headed back to Stanford to sleep.
Sunday arrived with gorgeous weather, as do most days out here in Northern California. The weather really deserves a blog post all its own, so I really won’t get too into that, but suffice it to say that we get an epic amount of sunshine and an impressively small amount of rain. It keeps me happy. Dan and I, looking for adventure, hopped into the Mazda and headed up into the Santa Cruz mountains. This is the mountain range that I have the pleasure of gazing at every evening as I drive west on my way home from work. The range extends, to the best of my knowledge, along the Pacific for much of the distance from San Francisco down to Santa Cruz. We took a steep and windy road up from the Silicon Valley to the famous Skyline Boulevard, which straddles the mountains’ ridges, and headed north.
Much of the road is rather unexciting, winding through mountain forests of evergreen trees in a never ending series of undulating curves, through which I pilot the nimble Mazda with the greatest of joy. My smile must go on for miles. Occasionally, the road peaks its head out above the trees and one is rewarded with the dazzling sight of rolling hills and a beautiful blue ocean to the left, and suburbia and the San Francisco Bay to the right. These are the areas for which Skyline Boulevard is famous, when both sides of the mountain range can be viewed. Eventually the road ends and one is forced to head back east to suburbia or travel west to Half Moon Bay. We choose the westward route and soon realized that much of Northern California, given the beautiful weather, seemed to have had the same idea. Stuck in traffic, Dan and I simply put down the windows and appreciated the view. I must say, traffic jams are much more easily managed when they are experienced on gorgeous single lane mountain roads rather than on 12 lane interstate highways.
We finally reached the cause of the backup, a traffic light at Highway 1, and began our southward travel. I was not terribly excited for this leg of the trip, mostly because I had been down in this area 2 or 3 weeks prior with my coworker and fellow RIT co-op, Ben. Nevertheless, I thoroughly enjoyed the cruise down one of my favorite highways ever, with the blue and beautiful ocean to my right and the rising green hills to my left.
A few stops were made, mostly to satisfy my desire to photograph. I must have exposed almost an entire roll of Ektachrome in a single patch of California poppies, which to my eyes are easily some of the most beautiful flowers on this earth. Their ability to grow almost anywhere and in such great numbers only makes them more incredible to me. The bright orange colored blossoms are just so simple and easy to love that I am considering an attempt to grow a few in captivity. I haven’t really thought this idea through yet, but I am accepting ideas from those who know a little about wildflowers!
A few miles north of Santa Cruz, Dan and I stopped at a beach which requires a bit of effort to reach. We walked down a long path and over some railroad tracks, down a steep and treacherous path of loose dirt and gravel, and down onto the golden sand. It felt cool and damp underfoot, not unlike an Atlantic beach after an afternoon summer shower. In typical Northern California style, the beach was absolutely gorgeous but also absolutely freezing. Despite the fact that it was a balmy 88 degrees over the mountains in the valley from which we had come, we found ourselves somewhere in the mid 50s and practically shivering from the windy chill of ocean breezes blowing onshore. On the bright side, this particular beach featured a spectacular natural bridge feature that presumably began as a solid wall of sandy rock, which eventually gave into the endless pounding of countless unforgiving ocean waves. It now provided an interesting and unusual portal to the ocean on the other side.
I spent 10 or 15 minutes soaking up the natural beauty that surrounded me and snapping a few photographs when I spotted something inspiring. A time or two, I was nearly drenched in frigid salty wetness as I gazed through the viewfinder of my camera and failed to notice the impending wave action closing in on me. Thankfully I made it back to dry sand without getting soaked or losing my flip-flops to the swells of the unforgiving ocean.
Following our walk back up the treacherous path, we returned to the car and sped south into the somewhat bohemian town of Santa Cruz. We were starving and began searching for dinner. Both of us had Mexican on our minds, so after a long and arduous search, we found ourselves seated in a bustling Taqueria, gigantic burritos and plates full of nachos in front of us. I sipped on Horchata and scarfed down Carne Asada goodness as the sound of Spanish-speaking soccer announcers filled the room from televisions mounted to the walls. Only the employees of the establishment seemed to be paying any attention to it. Our stomachs began to get full as I watched the shadows from the parking meters on the sidewalk outside grow longer and longer until they disappeared completely. Satisfied, we hauled ourselves back into the car and headed north to Sunnyvale in the twilight.
Another full weekend behind me, I thought about the week ahead. But before I knew it, another 7 days had whizzed by my eyes and I was gazing backward at another weekend, which had been largely spent wandering around San Francisco with friends, since I unfortunately had nobody with whom to celebrate Passover.
On Wednesday of this past week I left work and headed to Stanford to attend a Passover Seder with a delightfully unorthodox twist. The Seder was called Coming Out…of Egypt. Based on traditional seder customs, it was attended primarily by LGBT jews and allies and featured a progressive Haggadah which examined the story of Passover in a Queer context. I thoroughly enjoyed the opportunity to celebrate Passover in a setting of my peers, which is something I haven’t really done before. The food wasn’t spectacular but the maztah balls were satisfying and I had to remind myself that I should be thankful, considering that I was yet again being treated to free dinner by Stanford. Such generous people! Wine class followed and, for the third Wednesday in a row, I sat and got practically drunk with a bunch of college kids and a wine shop owner while learning about the delicious viniferous beverage known as wine.
When Saturday rolled in, I woke up early and headed out to get an oil change for the Mazda. I have been running around so much that she was almost 1500 miles overdue for one. Shame on me. I found a place down the street that could do it right away, so I gave them the key and let them go about their business while I jogged back to my house. At that moment, I failed to recognize two things…one being just how far my house was from that gas station, and two being just how horribly out of shape I am. I must have jogged about a half mile or so before the only thought in my brain was of how much I hate running. I decided to walk for a little while to cool down. It was getting sunny and warm and I had begun to sweat. Jog a little further you wimp, I thought, so I began to trot a little faster down the sidewalk, stepping carefully around the puddles caused by poorly aimed garden sprinklers. I must have made it another quarter mile before I realized that I was still not even halfway from home, that I was tired and hot, and that my oil change would certainly be done if I just decided to turn around where I was and jog back. So I did. I paid the 20 bucks and cruised away with a pan full of fresh grease. Hooray for driving instead of walking.
I got some breakfast and a shower when I returned home, and soon Dan arrived. I packed a couple bags and off we went. To where, you ask? Why, into the great beyond of course! Actually, we had decided that a weekend away from the usual would be nice, so we planned a little 2 day trip down the coast. I had heard wonderful things about Highway 1 near Big Sur and Monterey, so we picked the skinniest roads on my California road atlas to get there, and went. We took the 101 for a hundred miles or so, exited and headed west across a wide open landscape of tiny green plants sprouting up in long straight rows on either side of the road.
On his iPod, Dan was playing us an episode of This American Life, an NPR radio show featuring various first-person stories and short fiction pieces. This particular episode centered on the intriguing life of one Gerald Springer, better known as Jerry Springer and for the smutty talk show which bears his name. As it turns out, the guy was once a successful and charismatic politician with a law degree from Northwestern, who served for several years on the Cincinnati city council and even for a year as mayor of the town. He failed to win the democratic party’s nomination for governor of Ohio in 1982, which led him out of politics and into journalism. By the mid 1980s he had earned himself a reputation as Cincinnati’s number one news anchor, where he stayed until 1991, when he headed off to what many might call the demise of his credibility and standing in society. You basically know the rest. For better or for worse, the guy has one heck of a colorful and surprising past.
As the show drew to an end, we began gaining elevation and eventually crossed into the Fort Hunter Liggett Military Reserve, a big grey blotch on the map through which Google had instructed us to drive. Touted on its website as the Army Reserve’s premier training center for the western United States, I wasn’t even sure if we were going to be allowed in (in this post-9/11 world, as they say). I was even more uncertain as we drove up to the entrance gate and saw an armed guy checking identification from the cars in front of us. The weapon was no M-16, but hey, a pistol can still fire bullets. When we finally made it up to the guy, I sheepishly told the guard that Google had directed us here and asked if we could pass through. He was friendly but firm and asked to see our driver’s licenses as well as proof of insurance and registration. Having showed him all our documents, he asked us where we were headed. This was just like trying to get into Canada, I thought, only without the funny accent and the Niagara Falls!
Eventually he let us go by and we proceeded into the restricted area. Within a mile, I could no longer see the gate we’d passed through and, aside from the occasional boot camp course or lone tank hanging around, I could barely even tell we were traveling through a military facility. We passed by miles of lonesome landscape, with many fields and forests and hills and mountains visible outside the windows around every turn. Before long, the road began to follow the increasing lumpiness of the terrain and I noticed a bit of a smile forming on my face. Dan started playing some show tunes on his iPod as I piloted the Mazda up the narrow road which was becoming increasingly steep and windy. At one point, we reached a gorgeous vista point and we both got out to get some air. I realized as I stood there that we’d probably seen 3 cars in the last half hour of driving. This was some seriously deserted territory!
It wasn’t long before the steep incline we were driving up turned into a decline we were rolling down, and I began downshifting to keep the brakes from overheating on the long downhill journey we were about to make. There is something I have come to find terribly inviting about maneuvering the Mazda up these curvy mountain roads, most of which are completely sans guardrail. For me, it has something to do with the opportunity to get away from all the traffic lights and stop signs, but it also has something to do with the feeling of excitement that comes from exploring completely new territory, as well as the great sense of wonder associated with having no idea what new and amazing sight will be waiting around the next sharp curve. And believe me, some of them really are sharp!
Well, this road was absolutely no exception. We began to catch small glimpses of the horizon when the trees were not so dense along the road, and it was obvious what the faint blue sight in the distance was. I don’t know why, when driving over these mountains, I always forget how much fun this part is. Eventually the road came completely out of the trees and began to hug the face of the bare mountainside, all aglow with shades of gold, orange, and lavender colored wildflowers.
We stopped at several points to run down the hills like excited children and gaze out at the rolling valley grasses and the blue ocean that lay out before us in the distance. I felt a little like Julie Andrews when she runs around in the highlands singing “The Hills are Alive” in The Sound of Music. Only I guess she was somewhere in Austria, and I was on the Pacific Coast. But you get my drift.
The views only got better the closer we came to the ocean. Before long, we were descending some switchbacks and quickly losing elevation. Finally, we found ourselves at a stop sign, staring across Highway One at the ocean. What a ride!
I turned right and we headed north in the direction of Big Sur and Monterey. We had decided to come down here on Saturday because the next day this whole road would be shut down for the Big Sur International Marathon. 4500 entrants, up at 3am, to run in what must be among the best 26.2 miles of highway to jog on anywhere. Awesome.
The road clings to a narrow path which juts out from the craggy mountainside, narrow enough in some places so as to allow barely two cars’ width, and so wide in other places that big parking areas are available where dozens of cars and motorcycles filled with tourists stop to get a better view of the blue ocean and the tall mountains rising out of it.
I could sit here and write more about how amazingly gorgeous the trip north to the Monterey Peninsula was, but it would be like trying to capture the beauty of the landscape in a photograph. It just wouldn’t do it justice. What I will say is that I implore you to take this trip at some point in your life, and to do it with somebody who will appreciate it as much as you will. It is not something you will end up regretting, that I promise.
We were losing light when we arrived in Carmel, a rather sleepy oceanfront town just south of Monterey. We had dinner reservations for 8:30 but that wasn’t for almost an hour and the sun was just about to set. So down we drove to the shoreline and onto the beach we went, cameras and the beloved dino bag filled with towels in tow.
We were lucky enough to find a stretch of sand all to ourselves and I laid out the biggest of the towels near the water’s edge. We both sat down and munched on the last of the strawberries we had bought earlier in the day. The sun began to set and Dan and I cuddled in the sand as beach flies buzzed annoyingly over our heads. As the sun went down and the sky began to glow a brilliant shade of reddish-pink, I snapped a few pictures. When it started to get really dark, we strolled back up to the car and went for dinner. Good food and wine was had, and after the meal we headed sleepily off to our hotel in Monterey for the night.
Sunday morning I awoke without an alarm for the first time in seven days, and lay entangled with Dan for an hour or so before we decided to make something of the day. Because of his commitments back at Stanford, we only had a few hours before we would have to head back home. After a shower, we drove down to the touristy area of Monterey known as Cannery Row. I sadly do not see what all the fuss is about. While I was not overtly bothered by the environment I found myself in, I was reminded a little of the tackiness of Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco or of the many boardwalks found in east-coast beach towns: many beachfront restaurants with probably much more hype and advertising than culinary value or good service, and 1001 t-shirt shops. Yippee. Dan had actually warned me that it really wasn’t all that wonderful, and I have to say that he was right. We had a decent lunch and then headed for less manmade terrain.
Point Lobos was described to me by my manager at work as one of the “crown jewels” of the California State Park System. I haven’t seen enough of them to really make my own judgments yet, but I was pleasantly surprised with my experience here. We entered, paid our nine dollars, and drove down a long unmarked road. Eventually we came out in a parking area with gorgeous views of the ocean on three sides. That lot was full so we drove further south to another area with a space or two free, and got out of the car. I tossed my camera bag over my shoulder just in case I needed to swap lenses, and followed Dan down onto the rocky seashore. The next hour or so was spent meandering along the trails, which are marked clearly so nobody goes traipsing into any of the myriad poison oak plants which grow there. I’ve never had the pleasure of experiencing poison oak before, but if it is anything like poison ivy, well…let’s just say I stayed on the trail. I snapped a few dozen of my signature cliché landscape photos and watched a bunch of sea lions lay around on the rocks, which occasionally got up to emit a few random barking noises before laying back down and playing dead. Seriously, when you see these things from afar, you can’t tell if they are completely alive or 2 weeks post mortem. They are that ugly!
Before too long, we had to return to the car and point ourselves back in the direction of Silicon Valley. I was happy to have made something of the weekend that did not involve being wasted in San Francisco like I had been for the past 2 or 3 weekends in a row. I believe wholeheartedly that drunken Fridays and Saturdays are extremely important elements of achieving a balance in one’s life, but I have found that so too are peaceful weekend getaways to the seashore. I am glad to be living in a place where I can easily have so much fun doing both! I look forward to sharing it with you someday soon!
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