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.

Califeducation #3: The Coast Starlight, San Luis Obispo, and Solvang

For July 4th weekend, which is halfway between my mom's birthday and mine, I headed down to LA, where the madre lives. She had planned a surprise trip for me on the Coast Starlight (an Amtrak line on the West Coast, notorious for its wonderful views) to San Luis Obispo – I wanted to go to Santa Barbara, but the views get real good between Santa Barbara and San LO, so we went a bit farther north to get the good stuff and it totally paid off.

This is from the train. FROM THE TRAIN.

The highlight of the trip was the train ride. It's not that the trip was bad, it's just that the train ride was that good. It was my first one, so I suppose it's kind of like how you remember your first love. I wonder if any other train ride I ever take will compare. Correction: it was my first train ride in America. Train rides in Vietnam are full of men spitting into the aisle, people yelling into their cellphones, and obnoxious music videos playing so loudly they can't be ignored.

Once my mom and I finally figured out that you have to practically beg for a seat assignment (Yelp did not clue us in on that one), we got our seats and asked just about every attendant when we could move to the observation car. Here's what every Yelp review should say (and doesn't):

"When you go to get on the train, ask for a seat assignment. If the attendant you ask says something akin to, "She can get you one over there...hopefully," don't be alarmed; you won't be the first one to have been told that. Once you finally do get your assignment, find your seat, sit your butt down, and bask in all the leg room you have compared to every flight you've ever taken. Then, as soon as the conductor guy scans your ticket and your seat assignment, book it to the observation car. From LA, you'll have to wait about 2 hours for good views, but you'll have the best seat in the house (in fact, you'll actually have a seat) for when the waves finally do come crashing in around you. And if it's Thursday - Sunday you're in even more luck: there's this awesome National Parks volunteer tour guide group that makes it an even more memorable experience. Coast Starlight? 4 stars fo' sho'."

So for the entire trip, my mom and I planted ourselves in the observation car, which looks like this:



And offers views like this:




My favorite, though, was probably the trestle that we crossed. Made me feel like Jesse James could come out with his gun at any time, you know?



We got off the train pretty high on life, eventually got our rental car from a 19-year-old boy with eyes like Frank Sinatra, and headed on over to the Apple Farm Inn, the cutest little boutique hotel this side of the Rockies. There's a bakery, restaurant, and mill right there, too, so if you don't feel going up to Pismo Beach, you can just bask in massages, ice cream, and comfort food and then roll on into bed minutes later (even if it is 7:30 PM...cough cough). But the best part about Apple Inn? When you check in, they hand every person in your party cookies (soft, chewy, delectable, melt-in-your-mouth cookies) and a glass of wine. Do I want to go back? Uhh, does the pope wear a funny hat? They even give you a souvenir apple that's waiting for you on your vanity table when you walk in. It's the little things that sell me, you know?


We decided to skip San LO, stuff ourselves silly with the aforementioned comfort food, and head to bed super early for a trip to Solvang in the morning (after we loaded up on complimentary hot cocoa and cider, of course). It's a little town entirely devoted to tourism that is in traditional Danish style, even with horses wandering the streets and women and men dressed in traditional Danish clothing wandering the sidewalks just waiting to answer your questions. There are a ton of windmills, a ton of interesting architecture, and lots and lots of pastries. In other words, it has everything good in this world – well, for at least an afternoon or so.




Solvang – check. Coast Starlight – check. The next Amtrak ride I'd love to take would be up to Seattle or Canada. Sure beats American or Southwest any day of the week, but especially Thursday - Sunday. Don will even give you a sticker-stamp for your National Parks Passport when you hit just past Santa Barbara. With my sticker-stamp, souvenir apple, free cookies, and tummy full of hot cocoa, I reunited once again with the waves. Thanks for the pastry and cocoa-induced diabetes, south-central California. Thank you, Don, for being such a gracious docent. And thank you, railway workers of yore, for letting me travel with the sea (and, you know, get watermelon in winter and stuff).

Califeducation #2: Half Moon Bay

A few days ago, Aaron and I decided that the beach beckoned at sunset. The thing about NorCal beaches (do people call them that?) is that they're just so much emptier than SoCal beaches, which, in my mind, makes them so much better. Sure, they don't have milkshakes at the end of their non-existent piers, but it's a give and take. The closest one is Half Moon Bay:

Califeducation #1: Donner Pass, Plumas-Eureka, and Empire Mine

Last weekend, Plumas-Eureka State Park and Empire Mine were the destinations my "adopted daughters" and I set out to explore. This is the first time I've been camping since I was about 8 and all I remember about that experience was the porta-potties. Needless to say, camping has been upgraded since 1996. Nowadays, instead of just a tent and a couple of forks, the backs of vans look like this:


We stopped in Auburn at Bootlegger's for some lunch, and it was there that this turkey-panini connoisseur had the best turkey panini she's ever experienced. Apparently Greg dropped half of it on the floor though, so he gave me free cheesecake (in addition to a new sandwich), but I like to think he was just flirting with me. The cheesecake was drool-worthy, too. So far? The trip gets 5 stars.

Soon enough we pull into Donner Memorial State Park and Emigrant Trail Museum. The entrance greets you with a giant statue, where I immediately tell the girls that there's no way there was 20 feet of snow the winter of 1846 and there's no way the statue commemorates where the snow once was...

Apparently my wintry Iowa upbringing just wasn't harsh enough.

After the girls somehow accept that California history isn't a thing that's taught in every state (freakin' Californians), we move onto the Emigrant Trail, where 18-year-old boys once built cabins by themselves and where 18-year-old girls now trod on their iPhones and take photos for Instagram.


All jests aside, it really was beautiful. I can't imagine coming to this land after crossing the Midwest. It must've been breathtaking – in the good way – not the oh-god-I-just-ate-my-sister way. After a few moments reflecting on how painfully simply our struggles are and a very informative documentary at the visitor's center, we load back up into the van and make our way to Plumas Eureka.

Not too much later, the tent gets pitched with ease (surprisingly), we set up for the night, ward off the bears, and settle in for hours of s'mores and Chloe's guitar skills. The trip is still at 5 stars, if you're counting.


Whereas my version of camping, again, is a sleeping bag, a loaf of white bread, a jar of peanut butter, and the printed out version of my masterpiece How to Defecate in a Cup, Haley had other plans for the morning. Those plans included pancakes and bacon. Not once did I complain.

Bacon on left; pancakes on right.

Having loaded up on Americana, we start our hike to the nearest lake. This is the one bit of the trip that wasn't practically perfect: it's like whoever made the trail to the lake went to a rock dealership and said, "Hmm. What size rocks can I use on my trail that would be too small to hop between and too big to crumble underneath the weight of a human? I require a solid 15% sprained-ankle rate. Do you have anything like that?" Turns out that rock dealership did have exactly that size of rock and gave that person a deal because they bought in bulk. After a mile or two of hating our lives, we emerge to this:

Worth it. Hundreds of bright blue dragonflies everywhere, too. With a ham and cheese sandwich in this spot, nothing in life can be that wrong.

Returned, showered and ready to go, we hit the road for Grass Valley's "Gold Rush Days" and Empire Mine (you should visit the website to watch their 10-pixel donkey walk back and forth in their header). The girls promised me I would get to pan for gold, but a hoard of 6-year-olds kept me from living the dream. Though I didn't get to make the grill I wanted to make, I did get to realize that A) at least I'm not a miner for a living and B) California's history really is fascinating. I envy children who grew up here and the wealth of knowledge at their feet. The mine was a great look into history and the work men are capable of, even in such terrible conditions.

One of the major mine shafts once used on left; the repair shop on right.

I still haven't made it to Yellowstone...or to Capitola, or Carmel, or Santa Barbara – but next week is Solvang, which means it's Danish time, in both the carbophile sense and in the Europhile sense. Let's sign off with a view of where the Bourn family lived, on the grounds of the mine. Their backyard, the mine, is where the two halves of society once met, if you will.



No. Wait a second. That's a terrible idea. On second thought, it's July 4th, so let's not end this post about the widening economic gap between America's wealthy and impoverished. Instead, let's do it the right way:


There it is.

...You Had Me at Froyo.

Dear Yogurtland,

We can no longer live like this. I cannot bury these emotions under your creamy "Real Flavors"® anymore. In an effort to preserve our relationship, I have a few questions and comments that demand immediate answering:

1) Why are you so delicious? I've known that there's cocaine in the Filet-o-Fish for a while now, but would you stoop so low? I think not. You're above that. You don't need illegal stimulants to make your product so addictive. I've read the fine print. I've read your terms and conditions and your ingredient labels. Unless you're pulling the wool over everyone's eyes, this addiction is only in my head. Do you want me to question my mental stability? Regardless of your answer, the original question still stands: why can't I quit you?

All I need is 173 days, Yogurtland. Then your unlimited cup will be mine.

2) Why have you not recognized my patronage? I visit you 1.4 times a week. And yet – YET – somehow you continue to maintain the facade that I did not win that trip to Puerto Rico. Statistically speaking, how is this possible? How many customers do you have that are as loyal as I? How many adult women find refuge in the brick-and-mortar experience of your product, present unpersuaded by tiny hands and high-pitched whining voices? How many of your customers struggle with diets solely because you exist? Not many. If this doesn't make me a super-mega platinum member worthy of your limitless cup, then I don't know what does.


I have accrued 175 points in 2 days short of three months. That's 175 ounces of your froyo in 88 days. That boils down to 1.9886 ounces of froyo per day. Sure, I buy for my friends, too, but it's because I'm a good person (and I want their points). How is this not worthy of some sort of corporate recognition?

3) Why have you not fixed that typo on your mobile app to which I so kindly alerted you? Rest assured most companies would lose my patronage at the sight of misspelling the word "raspberry" (especially to a company that holds said fruit so core to their existence), but I make an exception for you. You're welcome. You're worth it to me. I'm not proud and I'm not happy, but relationships require work. I'm putting in my half. Where's yours?

Not okay at all, Yogurtland.

4) Why have you not hired me yet? I filled out my application weeks ago. That typo I spotted that proves you need me is still there, illustrating that not only have you not given my application its due, but you don't know what's good for you, either. I. I am good for you. I breathe, sweat, and cry your product. I risk diabetes 1.4 times a week for your product. What other qualifications need I have?

Proof that I even endure mockery for you, Yogurtland. Mockery. Subtle, yes, but still mockery.

Well, Yogurtland, I've had my say. If you would be so kind as to address my concerns, you know where to find me. Just go to whichever Yogurtland of yours runs out of Ghirardelli caramel sauce and Pecans & Praline faster than any other location and I'll be there within 72 hours. Statistically speaking.

The Best Advice #5

(Note: I work for a website where 13-year-olds and equally audacious people like to publish their knowledge. "Dear Jacqueline" is a page devoted to their work that didn't quite make the cut. You should be able to tell where my sarcasm stops and their wisdom steps in. For the record, no spelling or punctuation has been changed.)

Dear Jacqueline,

How do I have a personal relationship with God?! Help!
PS - I'm a Christian.

Wowwwww. I am soooo not the right person to ask for this one. HOWEVER, I do have a friend who really likes unicorns, so she'd probably be able to help. Let's see what she thinks about this one.


She totally knows what you should do! You're in luck. To get that warm, fuzzy, alpha-and-omega feeling in your stomach, here's everything you need to know:

1. Never tell him your credit card number
2. 2
3. Don't disclose any private informations about who you love
4. 3
5. Embrace science

...Idiot-tested. Jesus-approved.