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.

For Taylor: 4 Tourists, 2 Teenagers, and 1 Canoe

My friend Taylor over at Due East runs a segment every week called "Travel Story Tuesday." She's kindly asked me to chip in a story for her blog, which I obviously can't not post on mine. Finally, years spent in Viet Nam are paying off! Here is my first travel tidbit for French Press and Due East, lovingly titled, "4 Tourists, 2 Teenagers, and 1 Canoe."

4 Tourists, 2 Teenagers, and 1 Canoe

Charlie, Josh, Yoon, and I decided to go on a scooter trip through the Central Highlands of Viet Nam. I would ride on the back of Charlie's gorgeous bright orange '69 Vespa Sprint and Josh and Yoon would ride on Josh's purple '81 Vespa something-or-other. We took two weeks off work to see how far north we could get and then we would just train it back home.



At the time, Charlie was my boyfriend. He was a little crazy and a terrible boyfriend, but he made up for it by being bold, adventurous, and daring. He mapped out a route through the highlands that avoided Highway 1, the Ho Chi Minh Trail, finding little roads that were down-and-out terrifying. There were several times when Josh was sane enough to realize he didn't want to drive and Charlie gladly volunteered to drive both scooters back and forth, like some sort of scary math problem. There were "bridges" made out of rotting planks of wood, hills of mud saturated from the monsoons, and mountains of gravel that required a snail's pace and strong lungs. If any of us forgot that we were in the third world in Saigon, we remembered it here.

After a week or so, going through villages like Rang Rang (essentially 7 people guarding entrance to a gravel road like some sort of human toll system) and Buon Ma Thuot (hills of the best coffee you'll ever taste), we had to plot a path to get to Nha Trang. We had an atlas and one smartphone. Where the atlas left off, the smartphone picked up an inch or so later. Charlie reckoned that it was just a third-world lack of mapping that was the culprit, and unfortunately none of us gave Viet Nam enough credit to argue otherwise.

Packed and ready to go with a route in mind, we started winding our way through muddy hills, ponchos at the ready as it was April and the 6 months of incessant rain had already begun. It started raining, and then pouring, and then absolutely drenching everything in sight. We had been working our way down this one road for hours when the sun started to set, knowing full well that we had passed the event horizon and there was no going back from here.


All of a sudden, we clear a hill and the only thing in sight is a lake. A lake with two shacks, a motor boat, and a canoe planted shoddily in front of it. Our road disappeared straight into the lake like, I dunno, a piece of birthday cake into my mouth. We stop as we have no choice. We can't turn around. We can't caulk the Vespas and float 'em. I'm sure at this moment I'm starting to lose my cool, but that part's all a bit blurry.

Within seconds, two teenagers come to our "rescue." They've got to be shy of 15 and maybe 150 lbs soaking wet combined. I like to think my Vietnamese was the best out of the group at this time, but Charlie's was decent, too. Well, decent for white people. We get across what we're doing, where we're going, and what we'd like to happen. They get across that the reservoir has now been rerouted, and that for $30, or 600,000đ, they can get us and our Vespas across to where the road starts back up. For the record, this will be the most money these people have seen in years and we're entirely aware that this is almost quite literally highway robbery. But what can you do?

Agreeing to this terrible, terrible deal, the teenagers start directing us to the "dock." There's a decent-sized motorboat there that looks trustworthy enough – if the motor stops working, we may at least be able to paddle to shore if we all put our minds to it. But no. No, no, no. They want to load us four white people and two vintage, 150-lb Vespas into the canoe next to it. A canoe with a motor, sure, but in my mind, it's a canoe. Okay, it's not actually a canoe, but let's just say 6 people and 2 Vespas on that thing would break any reasonable fire code and require us to get to know these boys on a biblical level of sorts.

Naturally, I start freaking out. No, no, no. We have to take the other boat. There's no way. There's absolutely no way. But the teenagers don't back down, and Charlie and Josh give in, arguing that they've no other option. The four "men" try to work together initially to get the Vespas into the canoe, but soon realize there are too many cooks in the kitchen. Josh and Charlie back off, letting the teenagers take over. How, I don't know. I was 100% sure the Vespas would slip into the water, out of the weak, undernourished hands of these teenagers, and off the "dock" that well deserves its quotation marks. It was a few 2x4s propped up by rocks.

By some miracle of Yahweh, the bikes get in and so do we. To this day, the resourcefulness and ingenuity of the Vietnamese people as a whole amazes me and this is just one example of how and why. What also amazes me is their gall. One boy kept on saying he liked my earrings and asked if he could have them. The other would just say, "I love you," over and over. In fact, those three words were printed on his yellow shirt below a smiley face. The same image, "I love you" included, was tattooed on his arm. I think it's pretty safe to assume this was 1 of maybe 2 shirts he owned. For the record, the first one did not get my earrings.

Somehow, some way, the canoe makes it, we make it, and we get to the other side – a mirror image of the side we left, but so much closer to Nha Trang. We give them their $30 and they give us hearty goodbyes. We were surely the most exciting thing they'd see for a while. I even got a kiss on the cheek.



I peed behind a shed, we hopped on our bikes, and got the heck outta Dodge. Looking back, maybe I should've given him my earrings.