After looking back over today's post, which follows (thankfully without anything resembling yesterday's political harangue), I have to acknowledge it comes off as a curious mix of elitist snobbery and self-loathing. But to those who know me, that should be nothing new. The trick to dealing with me, I guess, is to catch me at the midpoint between these extremes. So apologies in advance to the long list of people and towns potentially insulted by today's post. Your chambers of commerce can keep the hate comments to yourselves. (No, really, I got one a couple of years ago when I lit up Bremerton, Washington on this blog. I didn't allow the comment to post, but it was like someone cut and pasted from the official Bremerton travel folder and then put 12 different "did you see this?" cross-examination questions. I don't get paid for this stuff you know, I just pretty much am sure that whatever I think is, in fact, the case and type it up).
Where was I?
Today was a travel day so there's not much adventure to report, though I did see some sights that remind me that no matter how I may pity myself from time to time, I'm living in Shangri-La. You know, the People's Republic of Austin.
Because I packed last night, getting checked out was a simple matter of bagging the trash and putting it in the trash cabinet (?) safe from bear pillaging, loading the car, and heading out on the highway.
But first I made a return visit to the Old Post Office for breakfast. This time, however, as I sat at the counter along with about five other coots, watching them hustle the waitresses for free coffee and some mild acknowledgement flirting, I realized I got an uncomfortable preview of my possible future. Though the ghost of Chris Reeder Future isn't here, not backing off (because that may work with the ladies but not with me), I nonetheless can see it from here. Hangin' out with the fellas at the barber shop or Denny's. Talking about how great things used to be. Trying to flirt with waitresses, counter clerks, hostesses and the like without getting an "awww...that old man is so sweet" reaction. Wondering when Steve's kids will tolerate yet another visit, or whether I'll get a Christmas card from someone not my brother, insurance agent, or politician running for office. Bothering little kids and their parents who pass my house. Becoming the old lady in To Kill A Mockingbird who was especially proud of her camellias and had a Confederate pistol under her shawl who would kill you as quick as look at you. Talking incessantly to repairmen. Of course, other than hangin' out with the fellas, that's pretty much how I am now. One of the two old guys in the balcony on the Muppet Show. No use crying about it now I guess.
After wallowing in self-pity, I tried getting out of the Lake Tahoe area but ran into road construction that had turned SH 28 into a one-lane road. Naturally, even though California is technically bankrupt, I noticed about eight people holding flags or stop signs to every one person actually doing road construction work. Some things are the same no matter where you go; I imagine in some Pacific island atoll nation populated by pygmy warriors undiscovered by the rest of the world, there's like 10 guys beating drums or waving palm fronds while one guy uses his rock-sharpened bamboo spear to clear the trail to the lagoon. But eventually I made it to the highway and then to SH 20, a really interesting drive that goes from the Sierra Nevadas to the Central Valley (and after I headed north, onto US 101). Basically it cuts right across the heart of Northern California.
As I reached it, it was another crystal clear, fantastic day that made me pat myself on the back (well, neck more like it), again, for renting the convertible. Both on IH-80 headed west out of Reno, and then on SH 20, it ran through some really attractive forests, losing a lot of elevation as it left the mountains. Its a really nice drive (see photo above). Oh, and this is near where the Donner Party ate it, literally (OK, that was in bad taste, I apologize for that one too). Its a great drive until right after you get outside of Grass Valley, at which point it briefly turns into Kerrville-esque scenery, before finally hitting the Central Valley. At that point, you may as well be in Sour Lake, Texas, in glorious Hardin County (home of the world's largest sinkhole and Houston sports radio legend Raymond, friend of Great American Steve McKinney). Its flat, with stubby trees and other scrub for a bit, then its all plowed fields. The temperature climbed about 20 degrees in just a few miles, it seems. Oh, and the whole place is thick with El Caminos, dilapidated houses with appliances and eight cars on blocks in front, dogs running all through the yard, used tire stores, Chevy and GMC truck dealerships, and tool rental places. Its a place where every vehicle has a trailer hitch.
You see, the Central Valley isn't the California the Beach Boys were singing about. Its the other side. The side they don't show in the tourism ads. Its where the hard work gets done. Among other things, its where they grow much of the fruit and vegetables sold throughout the country (and I'm not talking about vineyards).
In the North, Yuba City and Marysville, along with Redding, are the main Valley towns. I stopped in a few places, and drove around for a bit. These aren't the Californians who get plastic surgery for graduation or as anniversary presents, who visit ashrams, go to bikram yoga classes, eat microbiotic greens instead of salad, or hire life coaches. These people look like workers--tired, weathered, and frankly, about as fat as your average XXXXL size fan at Minute Maid Park. There appears to be nothing at all resembling the "culture" we enjoy in Austin (though they do have the Waffle Barn, so score one for the Calis), or natural scenery that the California coastal cities enjoy. These are hard towns, its a hard land, and these are harder people than the wine-sippers, hot tubbers, techno-geeks, and assorted freaks, weirdoes and wastoids on the coast.
One plus that the Central Valley residents enjoy is getting to listen to KPIG radio (96.7 out of Chico). They're similar to KGSR in Austin, except less K-geezerish, more Dead. Much less likely to break into programming with a special Butch Hancock or Lyle Lovett update ("KGSR brings you this special bulletin-Lyle Lovett just switched to organic paper towels"). I often stream KPIG at work (while working, of course, to zealously advocate on behalf of my clients).
I was looking forward to arriving in Anderson, just south of Redding, to see what the Gaia Hotel and Spa, where I spent the night, would be like. They bill themselves on the internet as Anderson's first "eco-friendly" hotel. It takes its name from "Gaia," the Greek name for "Mother Earth," so naturally I was expecting something extremely douchy. Anderson is pretty much just an exit off IH-5, and it happened to be furnace hot when I arrived (96 degrees). So much for my cool weather vacation. The hotel has about five two-story circular "pods" with about 30 rooms apiece. No elevators (which is kind of hard to imagine in this post-ADA world; where's Jim Harrington and his civil rights lawsuit frolics when they're needed?). There's a little pond and a couple of fountains in between, arranged in some sort of feng shui/feel your bliss modality I expect, with a pair of white swans and a pair of black swans (I guess racial quotas have made it to the world of eco-friendly hotels too). Notably, the white swans and black swans were not socializing with one another. Coincidence? I think not. The fitness "center" where I worked out was something of a joke-two cardio machines and the most sparing universal gym ever made. But I did get to watch on the big screen TV Big 12 joke Colorado get beat like a drum by a team called the "Toledo Rockets" of all things. That sounds like some made up team name for an Adam Sandler football movie. The rooms were kind of nice, with big screen TVs and a skylight in the bathroom (I was on the second floor). The restaurant, the Woodside Grill, was exceptional. I had the most incredible salad of all time, and keep in mind I've eaten at French Laundry. It was called the "Spango," a spinach salad with mango chunks, pecans, and a honey-pecan dressing. I also had prime rib, which should shave a year off my life but was really exceptional. But then they turned around the next morning and served a pretty dismal breakfast, given the money you pay to stay there. So its a mixed bag at the Mother Earth Motel.
Oh, announcement, the hotel where I'm staying now on the coast has sketchy internet access, so I won't be able to post any photos to flickr for the next few days. Basically it'll be hundreds of redwoods photos. Eh, you've seen one tree, you've seen them all, right?
Next-the drive to Redwoods National Park.
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