What a long, strange trip it's been (part 1)
One year ago today I left Iowa City.
My car was loaded down with necessities and a few things I should have left behind. It was a cool morning, and the growing sunlight had turned the darkness to gray. I imagined people still lying in bed, their internal timer’s stirring them from deep sleep in anticipation for the alarm.
That was always one of the things I liked most about night walking. I’d amble down the sidewalk at 3 a.m., the whole city dark and silent except for wind chimes and the light from street lamps, and look at the houses as I passed, imagining people tucked in bed, snug and cozy and safe.
Anyway. I drove off and forgot to reset the trip-odometer before I left my parent’s driveway, so I did it at the stoplight at Dodge and Church (I always hated that light; it always turned red in the middle of the night when I approached, and there were never any cars on the other street). After a year I haven’t reset it. I lost count of how many times it turned over.
This is a monumental anniversary for me. Moving to California was the biggest, scariest, craziest thing I’d done in my life. When I think about it now I have no clue how I did it. I had no job waiting, no place to live when I got there, and no clue what Santa Cruz was like because I’d never been there. I’d formed an idea from all the research I’d done on Wikipedia and Google (the Wikipedia entry for Santa Cruz made it sound pretty bad ass, which it is — check it out, even though it’s changed a little), but I didn’t know if it was the right place for me.
Saturday is the big day — one year after I crossed the state line into California and saw Surf City for the first time. But I’d like to write a little each day about the endless summer I’ve had since moving, about all the things I’ve done and seen. I’ve had five different addresses in the last twelve months — isn’t that crazy?
It’s been the longest and most adventurous year of my life, and I’d like to bookend it with a little celebration.
My car was loaded down with necessities and a few things I should have left behind. It was a cool morning, and the growing sunlight had turned the darkness to gray. I imagined people still lying in bed, their internal timer’s stirring them from deep sleep in anticipation for the alarm.
That was always one of the things I liked most about night walking. I’d amble down the sidewalk at 3 a.m., the whole city dark and silent except for wind chimes and the light from street lamps, and look at the houses as I passed, imagining people tucked in bed, snug and cozy and safe.
Anyway. I drove off and forgot to reset the trip-odometer before I left my parent’s driveway, so I did it at the stoplight at Dodge and Church (I always hated that light; it always turned red in the middle of the night when I approached, and there were never any cars on the other street). After a year I haven’t reset it. I lost count of how many times it turned over.
This is a monumental anniversary for me. Moving to California was the biggest, scariest, craziest thing I’d done in my life. When I think about it now I have no clue how I did it. I had no job waiting, no place to live when I got there, and no clue what Santa Cruz was like because I’d never been there. I’d formed an idea from all the research I’d done on Wikipedia and Google (the Wikipedia entry for Santa Cruz made it sound pretty bad ass, which it is — check it out, even though it’s changed a little), but I didn’t know if it was the right place for me.
Saturday is the big day — one year after I crossed the state line into California and saw Surf City for the first time. But I’d like to write a little each day about the endless summer I’ve had since moving, about all the things I’ve done and seen. I’ve had five different addresses in the last twelve months — isn’t that crazy?
It’s been the longest and most adventurous year of my life, and I’d like to bookend it with a little celebration.
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