Northbound

The wind howled all night, blowing whatever it was blowing loud enough that it woke me up. It was a kind of slumber interruption that turns on the flood lights in your brain. 

Two am turned into five am and I knew my alarm was set for six am. My laundry was still in the dryer and my gas tank was thirsty. 

I got up at the scheduled time and stared at myself, puffy faced, in the mirror. Lack of sleep and two margaritas will do this to you even at twenty three. Twenty three does not sound old, but it is a mature enough age to lose a job, and have enough savings to skate by and buy a ticket to visit Italy in February.

The departure did not happen until eight am, because my Father, the man who has lived more lives and worked more days than anyone ever made me some coffee before I hit the ground driving. We discussed the route I should take –the 101 North. We looked at the weather and what was going to “hit” San Francisco and when–as if rain is a sucker punch. The weather reported gusts up to twenty miles per hour, and the 5 Northbound was closed due to Tule Fog. A kind of condensation occurrence I learned is characteristic of the San Joaquin and Sacramento Valleys. It is a thick ground fog (sometimes called radiation fog) that is a leading cause of weather-related accidents in California. So, because seventeen cars the day before my departure got blinded by the fog and crashed, they shut down the freeway. 

My Father told me a story of when he was moving my now late Grandfather from Texas back to California. It was the dead of summer and my Grandfather pinched pennies wherever he could, so a U-Haul with no air-conditioning in the dead of a Texan summer made sense, financially. A thunderstorm found them and they succumbed. They spent the night in the smallest of small towns which consisted of a general store, a motel restaurant, and a gas station. All of which this husband and wife managed and owned. The wife made fried chicken for my father and soup for my grandfather. I guess the rain was starting to drown this Texan town, so my Father and his father went to bed in a primitive boarding room: Two beds, a toilet, no shower. They headed west bound the next morning, and my Father realized that this small family’s world is their village made up of general store shelves stocked with cans and bare necessities, fossil fuels, and beds for the weary highway hypnotized. 

My coffee cup was empty and it was time to go.

My car got loaded with totes full of clothes and random whatchamacallits I grabbed. Like the green tile from Mexico that I had a second thought about bringing with me. My Mother was still asleep, but I woke her up carefully to say goodbye.

I hugged my Father in the driveway, we told each other we loved each other. He told me,

“I’m so proud of you.”

His eyes got misty and so did mine. 

I backed away from the childhood home, gave my car a full tank of dinosaur bones, and headed North.

It was still gusty on the road, even though the sun was up. My car was getting pushed and I was steering against this twenty mile per hour invisible force. I thought about that one Brautigan line, “So the wind won’t blow it all away Dust… American… Dust.” 

I got up to Los Angeles, whinded onto the 101 North passing through downtown, having Sunset Boulevard on my right and eventually flying past Hollywood. The palms flailed and the road got rough. 

Then there was the big hill down to Camarillo that always tricks me into thinking Santa Barbara is closer than it really is. The highway goes straight for a while, the Northbound and Southbound lanes are framed by supersized strip malls and a mortuary too. Then there is the Pacific Ocean. 

There was an off-shore wind and the waves got wispy right before they crashed. I got to see the minimal California Archipelago and some oil rigs. Ventura, Montecito, and Santa Barbara flew by at about a seventy five mile an hour pace. 

The ocean fell behind me and it was all just land and dead grape vines. The highway got whindy and there was a tunnel through a foothill. My brother called me and talked to me about my future–the imaginary realm of infinite possibility. He emphasized that returning to San Francisco, jobless and single, will be a real testament to place and self. Will I actually like it? I have nothing holding me there other than a name on a lease agreement, according to him. We talked about my arc of coming home for the holidays and now leaving two and a half weeks later. During my journey South, it was pouring rain, washing me toward home. Now it was windy, giving me a boost back up to the city–or so I thought. I talked about fate and how I really was made to be more than a waitress in the sky. We talked politics and then he needed to get off the phone.

I passed by the Madonna Inn and pulled into San Luis Obispo. I got a sandwich and all the girls behind the deli counter wearing the same shirt and having slight variations of the same haircut all complimented my outfit. I took the sandwich and myself to Morro Bay and only saw four otters. There was a discarded pile of sand full of sand dollars someone left by the women’s restroom. It was pretty and forgotten and left behind in the sun.

Three and a half more hours until Fell Street. Music got played louder, and “Strange” by Galaxie 500 came on for the nth time, and the road got whindier, again. The sky was uninterrupted blue and the air was a bit breezy. I was properly inland. Blonde foothills and billboards regarding abortions, attractions in ten exits, and rest stops greeted me. 

There was one last stop for gas with about two hours left until San Francisco. Greenfield, California was gusty in all directions. The gas station television distracted me with an Arby’s advertisement while the number to the right of the dollar sign kept trickling upwards. 

The scenery changed again, there were Eucalyptus trees blocking the afternoon sun, and then there were outlet stores, movie theaters, warehouses, and two airports. 

The speed limit dropped and I was on a familiar stretch of the road. Then there it was, the skyline blinking and shining and greeting all of us through our windshields. 

It felt good to park on my street next to that rectangle of green framed by three story apartments. My bags were heavy, but it did not matter. It is only baggage. 

I unpacked immediately and then made plans to visit some friends who just moved kitty corner to the Painted Ladies.

I ventured over to their new place, walked up a hill trying to think about how I feel. The San Francisco skyline turned its lights on and made me feel good.

Catching up with friends over wine felt like the mature thing to do. Laughing, gossiping, and filling everyone in on our New Year’s Eve kisses. Oh, what it is to be a twenty something girl who just drove seven hours to see some friends. 

Then there was the walk back to Fell Street. The air was still, icy, and the sky was clear and black. 

My keys jingled and the apartment lights were on. A turn of the door knob and there they were, my closest friends in this Cool Grey City of Love. My eyes got misty for the second time this day, because I really did not realize how much I missed these particular people, until seeing them weeks later sitting on the love seat. 

Tho they stay her feet at the dance,

In her is the far romance.

Under the rain of winter falling,

Vine and rose will await recalling.

Tho the dark be cold and blind,

Yet her sea-fog's touch is kind,

And her mightier caress

Is joy and the pain thereof;

And great is thy tenderness,

O cool, grey city of love!

-George Sterling, 31-40, Cool Grey City of Love

While my agenda for the next day, and the other ones following are up in the air–like how I used to be–one thing's for certain, I made it North to San Francisco.