Drained and lifeless, our mood matched the baron wasteland of Bakersfield as we made out way down the freeway. The three of us were exhausted; Thomas, in the back seat curled up and listened to his own music to try and make the drive seem shorter than the several counting hours which would follow. Jesse and I tried to stimulate ourselves by switching the radio to the different station of the small town we would pass, always somehow finding the song we needed to keep the drive fun. We were excited, no doubt. We had planned this trip for what seemed like years after the group of tight nit brothers we had accumulated during high school all parted ways to attend college.
The trip began as an idea to visit of friends at their respective colleges up the northern coast of California. First we would stop in Santa Cruz for two days and two nights to visit Dylan, a rambunctious skateboarder and party animal. On the last leg of the journey we would spend a day in San Francisco and then visit Gabe, a laid back experimental musician, in Berkeley.
After a few hours of trying to lighten the ominous drive ahead with laughter and irreverent jokes we are hit with a wave of calm exhaustion. We are beyond any nameable town and there is nothing left to laugh at but the absurdity of out ill prepared pilgrimage. “Chances are” by Johnny Mathis came on a local radio station and the sunset dipped slowly behind distant hills and giant telephone polls. It was no wonder of the world, but it was beautiful and simple. It was what we needed. The trip was an excuse for us to visit these places that seem so close but yet aren’t. We had all been burnt out by our routines and the incessantness of the city. I can speak for my comrades because thats about all we talked about on the ride in between bouts of minor insane comedic rambling. After the sun had set and we moved into another nameless town we felt the rock of excitement fall into our bellies. We knew we had hours left to go but there as a destination. The yellow lines in the road became our lifeline to an adventure; a new scene. We had no business other than pure pleasure yet we felt we were on a mission.
Our arrival in Santa Cruz was less momentous than we expected. When we had seen the sing saying we were entering the city limits we screamed and hollered that we had finally made it. Hours of staring at the bleak darkness out of the grimy car windows, with only the headlines to illuminate the road and static interrupting mariachi radio. We pulled up to the small, beige house. On the chipped blue porch sat camping chairs and a wet brown sofa. We darted from the car, leaving our duffle bags behind and pounded on the door. The door swung open to reveal Dylan, a black beanie pulled down over his eyebrows and squinted eyes looking our form behind neck length curly hair. “Oh, hey” he said, his voice never rising above 2 decibels. Regardless, we hugged him and pushed our way into the house and greeted the other roommates, who were all sitting comfortably on the couch enjoying frozen pizza and college basketball. We spent the night catching up with Dylan and getting the tour of his home. The next day was spent walking the shoreline of Santa Cruz, allowing all the stress to melt into the breeze and soaking in what felt like fresh sun rays. We experienced the slow trudge that was downtown. People clad in plaid flannels loved like Zombies through syrup as we jetted about, trying to soak up what culture we could. In the evening we took bike ride back down to the shoreline bike path and beheld the golden sunset. We were at peace.
We stopped on the way to Berkeley at a beautiful mountain overlook in San Francisco. Looking like a Lego city from that distance I marveled at its uniqueness and seeming authenticity. It was a different air than Los Angeles. Dylan, who was joining us, skateboarded down the winding hills beneath the mountains as Thomas and I tried to capture the magnitude of the mind on top of the mountain. I was impressed by the flexibility of my legs. It was a gorgeous view and it fueled our excitement for the night we had in store.
We loaded up the car and continued on our quest. The traversed winding roads through green forests and imagined the world we would be entering at what we expected to be a hippie commune at Gabe’s house. The truck was filled with the spoils of thrift shops we had hit on the way there. We didn’t rob them, but it almost felt like we did. Denim and leather ran in abundance and we filled the truck like the belly of a starving man.
We arrived at Gabe’s house. It was a tall, thin white house; something I would have thought to be haunted if I didn’t know I had to sleep there that night. Gabe created us warmly, bringing us into the warmth of his home. Records lines the walls and people playing different instruments sat on couches that surrounded the living room. He showed us to his basement, where he had made a humble practice space for him and his musician friends. He, Jesse, and I had been in a band in High School so naturally we printed for our instruments and began to to play. Are chemistry was instantaneous yet again, each of us communicating in our eyes where we wanted the song to go or what bizarre experimental time signature we were about to shift into. After we had sweat together yet again, Gabe informed us of a party he was hosting that night in his house. We, who had traveled from LA only two days before, thought this was the welcoming we had be waiting for. The part was spent talking to new and exciting people, exchanging stories and party traditions that some of the dozens of Berkeley students had never heard of.
The next morning was a rude awakening, but one that felt deserved and fulfilling. We loaded back up into he car and drove off; three strong yet again. The ride back the three of us laughed about the shenanigans of the previous nights. We had an adventure. We had a new memory and the release we had craved.
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