California dreamin', Part 2

My memory is apparently not as sharp as I think. I started my move to California on September 5 — not September 6, as I wrote a couple days ago. No worries. I have edited the previous post and republished it one day earlier. Ah, the wonders of our electronic era. Nothing is set in stone and mistakes can be quickly erased with zero paper trail. How convenient for my generation’s budding politicians.

I realized my error today. After reaching Santa Cruz and finding my cousin’s house in the mountains of Los Gatos, I called Bobblehead and Mervgotti late that evening to wish them a happy birthday. They share the same birthday — September 8. So after driving through two thousand miles of diverse and rugged terrain and blowing out one muffler, I made it to the coast five years ago today — September 8, 2006.

Having never been to Santa Cruz, I was very eager, and anxious, to see it. After much deliberation, I had decided to relocate to Surf City because it seemed similar to Iowa City. It was about the same size, home to a large public university, and, according to Wikipedia and other online sources I read, pretty progressive and artistic. It was IC on the Pacific coast. It truly was, as I was to find out. But the day I arrived it was anything but what I thought it would be.

Nearing the coast on Highway 17, somewhere around Scotts Valley, the day changed from bright and warm to gray and overcast. When I drove into Santa Cruz, the place looked dreary and downtrodden. Bums pushed shopping carts along the sidewalks and everyone was wearing sweatshirts and long pants. I somehow found my way toward the boardwalk and parked on Riverside Avenue. It was cool and nobody was around; the boardwalk was, I think, only open on weekends after Labor Day. I walked onto the beach at the stairs pictured above and let the waves touch my feet. The water was cold. I looked out across the dreary Monterey Bay and thought to myself, “What the hell did I just do?”