Seven months and counting
Seven months ago today — September 8, 2006 — I arrived in California.
I drove across the state line on Interstate 80 a little after noon. I had spent the night at the El Dorado casino in downtown Reno, and had my muffler replaced at Midas that morning. The old one had developed a hole on the top, and the escaping exhaust burned the paint of the undercarriage and the carpet in the trunk. It also filled the car with carbon monoxide. When I got to Reno the night before I had a hard time staying awake, and it wasn't because I'd driven 900 miles. I had breathed the exhaust gases all day. They’d gotten into my blood and had started to dull my mind. If I hadn’t stopped in Reno I may have passed out at the wheel on the freeway. Not good.
And so I learned an important lesson about cross-country moving: There will always be one or two close calls.
It was also the first time I’d been to Santa Cruz, the city I’d picked to live in. I hit Oakland and San Jose at rush hour, and I sloughed through traffic until getting to Highway 17. It was sunny in San Jose but cloudy in Santa Cruz, my first experience with microclimates. I parked on Riverside Drive, walked through the boardwalk and wet my feet in the ocean. The sky was gray, the wind was strong and cold, and the entire city looked downtrodden and derelict. I thought, “What the hell did I just do?”
Seven months is a long time. A lot has happened. I’ve lived and learned. But things are looking good. I’m living my dream. And, most importantly, I’m writing. I’m writing like mad. I’ve written good stuff and bad stuff, and I know it all evens out in the end. I’ve gotten published, too.
Here’s to California.
I drove across the state line on Interstate 80 a little after noon. I had spent the night at the El Dorado casino in downtown Reno, and had my muffler replaced at Midas that morning. The old one had developed a hole on the top, and the escaping exhaust burned the paint of the undercarriage and the carpet in the trunk. It also filled the car with carbon monoxide. When I got to Reno the night before I had a hard time staying awake, and it wasn't because I'd driven 900 miles. I had breathed the exhaust gases all day. They’d gotten into my blood and had started to dull my mind. If I hadn’t stopped in Reno I may have passed out at the wheel on the freeway. Not good.
And so I learned an important lesson about cross-country moving: There will always be one or two close calls.
It was also the first time I’d been to Santa Cruz, the city I’d picked to live in. I hit Oakland and San Jose at rush hour, and I sloughed through traffic until getting to Highway 17. It was sunny in San Jose but cloudy in Santa Cruz, my first experience with microclimates. I parked on Riverside Drive, walked through the boardwalk and wet my feet in the ocean. The sky was gray, the wind was strong and cold, and the entire city looked downtrodden and derelict. I thought, “What the hell did I just do?”
Seven months is a long time. A lot has happened. I’ve lived and learned. But things are looking good. I’m living my dream. And, most importantly, I’m writing. I’m writing like mad. I’ve written good stuff and bad stuff, and I know it all evens out in the end. I’ve gotten published, too.
Here’s to California.
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