fishing for words

(and tossing out random thoughts)


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adventure is on the ground

About this time each year I make the 789-mile road trip to visit the folks and the brother and his family with anyone willing to spend what’s probably too much time with me. It’s a longish drive of about half a day plus two hours.

This year, while discussing this year’s plans with my sister, she was quick to chide me for not flying. She pointed out that flights to Seattle from San Francisco aren’t that expensive. I feebly argued that it cost less to drive, even if it meant a lot of time behind the wheel.

Now that there’s been time to think about it, I still favor driving to nearly any distant place.

It’s easy to fly these days; no more difficult than grabbing an Uber. Book a flight, arrive on time, wait in line, and a few hours later you’re where you want to be. There’s no adventure. At least not the kind of adventure I’d enjoy: delayed flights, crying babies and minuscule snacks. Admittedly, flying does minimize the “cost” of time, but packed into a big aluminum tube traveling at 575 mph, one becomes disassociated from the process of travel.

On the other hand, traveling on terra firma requires participation with the outside world*. The possibility of adventure is a constant companion: stopping to take in new snow on the hills at the California/Oregon border, comparing rest stop bathrooms, watching the sun rise over fields just south of Redding and set just north of Vancouver, Wash., all during the same day.

Hwy 5 Sunrise

Sunrise somewhere along Hwy 5 in far Northern California.

It’s misadventures that create the strongest memories. Seventeen years ago, when it was just the boys and me, on the last day of school, we left in a worn out 1988 Honda Accord for Yosemite. The 12-year-old sedan squatted under the weight of camping supplies crammed into every available space. Of all the cars I’ve owned, it was my least favorite, a car purchases out of necessity with limited funds.

In retrospect, that day marked the beginning of one of the hottest summers that decade. The temperature had climbed to over 105 degrees by the time we passed through Manteca, in the center of the Central Valley. When Highway 120 hits Oakdale, the road begins a slow climb into the foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Though not steep, during this climb the Accord lost power and the temperate gauge began its own ascent. There’s no clear recollection of how many times we pulled over to let the car cool down. Despite better judgement, we pushed on and enjoyed a fantastic week in Yosemite Valley. And the boys have always remembered this trip. We’d often drive the same route to the family cabin and Sean’s running joke would be to point out oak trees he remembered “watering.”

Travel by car isn’t the most convenient way to travel, and certainly has its limitations. Neither is it the fastest mode of conveyance. But it can be a good option for those interested in passing through, being part of, and experiencing the world.


* This is also a big plus of motorcycling, but that’s for another time.

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in the air and on the road in San Diego

It was in the shade of a concrete canyon that we reminisced over breakfast about those last few days in San Diego. It was a visit without an itinerary but nonetheless full. Balboa Park. A working lunch and dinner. Coronado Island.

The trip last week was free of monetary worries; part of a package to celebrate my having worked 30 years with the company. Whether it was a perk or disruption, the rest of my co-workers would join us for a day at the office and the celebration that evening.

Karen and I were on the road early that Wednesday, weaving through the normal early-morning traffic. Highways 680, 24, 980 and 880 got us to Oakland International Airport in good time. My past airport experiences had been marked by apprehension and anxiety. For me, arriving 15 minutes early equates to being on time; on time is late. Airports bring too many unpredictable variables into play. I didn’t like it and constantly imagined missing a parking lot shuttle or flight.

We arrived at the airport more than two hours before our flight, allowing time for a leisurely breakfast. It made me feel like a real traveler. I was relaxed, in fact.

And my wife had a plan. Her mother was a stewardess back when that job title wasn’t outdated, but the knowledge she imparted still applies today. My wife would take a window seat, and I’d take the aisle seat. As long as the flight wasn’t completely full, this might, deviously, deter anyone from taking the seat between us. It worked. No more than 70% of the seats were occupied, allowing us to enjoy some elbow room.

The flight was comfortable. The first landing attempt waved off, the second attempt turbulent but successful. The weather was clear and San Diego almost seemed to sparkle.

I was originally under the impression that my boss, the company owner, would be our chauffer. But I was handed the keys. He’d be our navigator. Along the way we were regaled with tales of his family’s history in San Diego. The first relative arrived in the late 1800s. During his youth, he wasn’t allowed south of Broadway. Our hotel, Hotel Palomar San Diego, was just north of the old Woolworths, where he never had a sandwich.

What would be the view from our room on the 18th floor of the Palomar.

What would be the view from our room on the 18th floor of the Palomar.

San Diego is one of the more puzzling cities I’ve visited. Its waterfront is wide open, as most are. But a few blocks in, it’s a mashup of old and new, with older buildings’ blank walls facing a street for two or three blocks. Often, only a single door or parking garage entrance hints that there is something behind the featureless edifice. While development of the city’s Gaslamp Quarter does seem offer a mix of people living, working, shopping and dining, most areas don’t.

This isn’t helped by the many, multi-lane one-way streets. I read somewhere that one-way streets encourage greater car speeds and discourage pedestrian and bike traffic. This seemed to be the case in the one-thousand block of Fifth Avenue, our home base for three days.

If our stay is any indication, San Diego has some of the best weather anywhere in the country. After our quick tour and dropping the boss off at the office (farther up Fifth Avenue), we ended up in Balboa Park. We took a quick tour of an anemic display of California native plants, the headed toward the Spreckels Organ, lucky enough to quickly find a parking stall.

More people than you’d expect for a Wednesday walked up and down the sidewalks. Balboa Park’s landscaping isn’t easily described. From any single location one might see five or more different species of trees. Lawns lush by California standards give way to xeriscaping, planted with succulents from around the world. There was a remote familiarity to it. This is what I grew up with in the San Gabriel Valley.

Karen had suggested The Prado for lunch. (I silently mulled over feelings that any restaurant with a name that starts with “The” could quickly empty my wallet.) Located in the House of Hospitality, it’s at the center of Balboa Park and was built for the 1915-16 Panama-California Exposition. The building echoes the Spanish Colonial Revival style apparent throughout the park, though there is an argument that, being an architectural stylistic movement that arose in the United States during the early 20th century, it’s wrong to connect it with Panama.

We were seated immediately and our server was almost doting. Splitting the entrée, as we often do, limits the choices bit – it’s well known that Karen doesn’t eat cheese (I do) – but we agreed upon steak tacos.

Often it’s the entirety of a meal that makes it better than good and that was the case with this meal. The rice and beans were better than most, the steak cooked well but still tender, and the tortillas were more flavorful than their thinness would suggest.

It was a delicious start to a trip that would end up offering much good food, fantastic weather and a lesson in slowing down.