Finding Joy in the World's Saddest Pier

Living in the Bay Area, you're just far away enough from the ocean that you never see it unless you make it a point to see it - which means you never see it. If you can manage to get your act together, it's there waiting for you. It's there in all its touristy, on-the-beaten-track wonder, and then you hit the Capitola Pier.

You might've heard of Santa Cruz. Vintage boardwalks and dive-y burrito shops by day, street musicians, marijuana, and poorly lit roads you don't want to walk down by night. Then there's Carmel, where you might go hungry trying to find a restaurant amidst the art shops - but if you're looking to drop a hefty sum on a copper sculpture of a dolphin, you couldn't be in a better place. And let's not forget Monterey, home to too-famous-for-its-own-good Cannery Row, thousands of moon jellies, and barrels and barrels of tempting saltwater taffy.

But then there's Capitola. Just south of Santa Cruz and topping the list of coastal cities you can drive to by day from the Bay Area. There's the quirky rainbow houses lining the beach...


There's an abundance of fishermen toiling away from morning till night...


And then there's the most melancholic pier you'll step foot on, if piers could be melancholic.

"Stand here with me, Nadine, and watch the sea catch the sun. All six are clean and warm and fed, their dreams can come true, as ours."

Every ten feet or so you come across a weather-worn plaque. A weather-worn, poetic, heart-wrenching plaque for someone who died too young - no devotee was over 60. A tiny monument to someone who was loved much and often and may have loved the sea even more. There are children, there are mothers, there are fathers, and there are friends - all young people taken too soon. Surely not by the ocean beneath their memory? Surely not willingly off the wooden boards bearing their names? But just as the ocean never gives away its secrets, the stories on this pier are equally as elusive.

In a sense, these purposefully elusive stories are sandcastles turned to bronze. A fleeting memory in someone's mind, made to last forever. If there's one reason to come to Capitola, it's to see the layers of sandcastles: sandcastles on the beach crafted by tiny hands and washed away in minutes, and sandcastles turned to bronze: memories living on forever.

To Iowa: I'm Sorry

Iowa, I'm sorry.

For years I've written off your people, cursed your winter-torn roads, pitied your empty shopping malls, lamented your land locked-ness, and readily given you the title of "The Land of Missed Opportunity." I made up my mind that you had nothing to offer me; you and I, we simply wanted different things. But for years, it turns out I was wrong.


You see, Iowa, I had to go experience other things. I wanted to be a part of a culture that Rand McNally wouldn't describe as "remarkably homogenous." I wanted – needed – to smell the sea. I craved the scent of curry wafting through the air between bistros. I yearned for immaculate concert halls, centuries-old cathedrals, and buildings that touched the sky. I needed to throw on a t-shirt on a December morning and go for a run in the hills. I wanted to have something to write about. And I found those things, Iowa. And it was grand.


But it turns out, Iowa, that everyone else is going to the beach, too. It turns out that people being "remarkably homogenous" has everything to do with who you choose to be around. It turns out that too much curry is just plain nauseating. It turns out that buildings that touch the sky can't help but hide it from view, too. And as for running in the green, rolling hills of a coastal winter, I did that maybe once.


I forgot what else it is you don't have, Iowa. You don't have city after city, miles of rolling concrete underneath your stationary tires, regardless of what hour of the day it is. You don't have cafes that only sell coffee and $4 toast as part of the next "artisan trend." And while people that call your land home might often look the same, that's just the signature curve of a Midwestern smile.


You have quite the calming air about you, don't you, Iowa? The ability to convince anyone and everyone that it'll all be okay. You never fail to reassure us that we'll make it through, that we shouldn't be worried if we're "coming out on top" because there is no top. The Jones aren't calling – the open road is. And there are miles and miles of it. Miles and miles of open road, winding and unblemished, full of greens, burgundies, and golds just waiting to be conquered.



What I didn't understand before is that to live in Iowa is to live an exordium – to live at the beginning of what could be anything. Life there is douce: a word I recently learned means "quiet" or "serene," but if you thought "sweet," well, it's that, too. To live in Iowa is to look outside and see the world in front of you, free and full of opportunity, just as it should be. And it is that now which I crave, Iowa. And I know nowhere else to find it but in you.


So wake up in the morning with me, Iowa. Maybe we'll lounge in bed together, listening to your thunder. Maybe we'll throw the windows open and take in your summer breeze. Or maybe we'll go out onto the patio with a steaming cup of coffee and just breathe each other in. And it'll be beautiful.