Los Angeles, CA

Thursday afternoon, I drive the Pepperdine campus and stop at Alumni Park, where Brother Tom and I used to do some serious route-running. There are a few girls on beach towels. Students here? No, we go to high school in Thousand Oaks. Cool! You ladies take care. And so I spin the football in my hands and stare at the view for a while. The babyblue lifegaurd shacks, the dramatic cliffs, the zillion dollar houses, the sky. I mean, have you been to Malibu? 

I drive the PCH to Santa Monica, where I meet Lauren, Andrea, Justin. I've been in LA for less than an hour and look at me: I am beachcruising to a Lakers bar on Wilshire, I am watching Kobe and the Foreigners, I am schmoozing with fashion reps...

I spend all day Friday on this beachcruiser. Down Montana, left at Ocean, right at Santa Monica Pier. Up Arizona Street, down the Promenade, to Main.  Granted, I'm doing all this on a beautiful, why-live-anywhere-but-here Friday, but everyone I encounter is soo nice. A few cars pull too far into the intersection; they reverse and apologize! The waiter at World Cafe is little late with my beer; he comps it! The barista at Urth likes my new fedora (purchase validated)! A stranger on Third Street complements my beachcruiser, Nice ride my brother!  Picture-perfect Friday in Santa Monica. A nice ride indeed.

And now for the drive into Hollywood. It's 4pm, could have timed this one better. Traffic is nightmarish, but whatever, I'm in Westwood, I'm in Melrose, I'm in Beverly Hills! Look at the houses, the trees, and pretty gates and shiny Bentleys. And CRUNCH. San Diego to LA (the long way) unscathed. And, today, my first collision. 

It's my fault. We pull over and assess the situation. Everyone's fine, damage is minimal. The guy I hit (more like bump, more like tap) is Joshua, a nice young guy, but he's nervous because he's leasing this Beamer, typical, and is accountable for every ding. We exchange info and we part ways amicably. I pull onto Sunset two hours after leaving Santa Monica and call Steve. I'm a little flustered. Pinkberry? Pinkberry. 

Later, Crown Bar in Hollywood. The kids are hip and the music very fresh, written seconds ago. So I'm walking the place, surely rubbing shoulders with future Hollywood greatness, and I'm telling my story, making friends... 

Her: What's your number? 

Me: 858-

Her: Okay, 310-858-

...And who do I bump into (again) but Joshua. Dude! Didn't I rear-end you today? Yeah man! How are ya? I apologize for the inconvenience and buy him a drink. I meet his friends, some curiously beautiful people in skinny jeans and gossamer V-necks. I meet a guy that I thought was Danny Masterson but is in fact a just a film editor. I meet Dom from Entourage. I meet Pau Gasol. Everyone is soo nice. 

And why wouldn't they be? This is LA, the sunny 33rd parallel, where broke actors wear True Religion and drive BMWs, where the floor ain't bad and the ceiling is high. The razor's edge of cool. The good life. Why live anywhere but here?

Santa Barbara, CA

Wednesday 8pm, Santa Barbara Brewery on State. Alone again, watching the Celtics game. Just had a nice drive through town, and I'm wondering, how does a town with so many great street names (Miramonte, De La Guerra, Pedregosa, etc) choose State for it's main drag? What to call the road that goes from the mountains to the harbor, past the Presidio and the Mission? Let's call it State. State. Same as Madison, which at least was the capital of one. So anyway. I'm a little disappointed by this. Okay, I'm over it. 

State Street's a beauty. Everywhere, palm trees-- tall skinny ones, short stubby ones, a dozen variations between. And then the cafes, the hotels, the courtyard restaurants, the tan women in serapes, the blonde surferkids with square jaws, little Laird Hamiltons. 

And then the architecture. White stucco buildings dotted with blue-yellow tiles. Even my hotel (not to brag, but yeah, I'm staying at the Holiday Inn on Haley) looks to have been designed purposefully. Mission Revival, says the concierge (receptionist). Interest piqued, I wiki that and pick up some facts. Look at that, a curved gable. Aha, now that's what you call an arcaded archway. Travel, learn.

So I'm drinking beer alone at this bar. Enter, 40-year-old woman in heels and no wedding ring, might have been a dame in her day. I'll have what he's having, she says, winking at me. I guess this is where I should ask a question, maybe turn my barstool. Nope, I just get super awkward and stare at the TV. Well, look at that. Ray Allen is having quite the game, isn't he. 

I rise early Thursday, like 7am early, and get this, I go jogging. I haven't been a model of healthy living these last two months, so I really dig in. Along the boardwalk, to the end of the pier and back, past some mexicans playing 27-on-27 soccer in a park with three balls and lacrosse nets for goals. And I just keep going. Past the Mission. Past some Spanish Colonial architecture (notice the projecting eaves). At least three miles this jog I do. So yeah, calorie-wise, I think I'm good for a while. 

After, I walk into a coffee shop on Figueroa. I am wearing Dri-FIT. I am wearing the hat of an eastcoast university. I am petting stranger's dogs. I am ordering the Fair Trade Blend. I am reading the LA Times. 

I am in Southern California, and this is what I do. 

Highway One

We merge onto California Route 1 without much ceremony. No welcome signs, no palm trees, no 1991 Patrick Swayze ripping waves. I guess I thought maybe the Equinox would to turn into a red convertible and Phantom Planet would come on. This did not occur. 

In fact, for a while there, the so-called Pacific Coast Highway wasn't even coastal. So, there we are, Mom and I, expectations soaring, on the California 1, and everywhere we look, just flat, scrupulously organized rows of, I dunno, wheat? I'm thinking, that Anthony Kiedis was full of shit, man. 

Okay, maybe I made a wrong turn at Gilroy. Next exit, I'm turning this thing around. 

And then. 

 Mountains Left, Ocean Right

Looks a lot like this for from Monterey to San Luis Obispo. 

 Incredible views and hairpin turns. Takes a real pro behind the wheel

Monterey Bay Aquarium, Cannery Row

The ultimate irony here is that you can watch, learn, and read about all kinds of marine life at the aquarium, then walk down the street and eat it for lunch

Carmel-by-the-Sea

Memorial Day at the beach. That little golf hole? Pebble Beach

Windblown Cypress, Carmel

So this a golf hole... if the wind does this to the trees, 

what does it do to my ball?

Hog's Breath Inn, Carmel

Mom and me, and some six o'clock beers. 

I think I end up drinking both

Carmel to Big Sur

One of many Okay-This-Is-Unbelievable-Let's-Pull-Over moments

Big Sur

So I've read about it, seen pictures, watched documentaries, and still 

I'm standing there thinking, 'you've gotta be effing kidding me'

Post Ranch Inn, Big Sur

Sunset and cocktails on the water, except 1,200 feet above it

San Francisco, CA (2)

Saturday afternoon, I meet Mom at a hotel on Sansome and we walk through Financial to Union Square to Market Street. This side of San Fran is different... feels like New York. Transamerica is the Chrysler, Union Square is Bryant Park, Market Street is Park Ave. Everywhere along Market, hustle, bustle and havoc. A little overwhelmed, we cab it to Cafe Divine on Stockton, where Bike messengers pedal by. Asians are doing yoga in the park across the street. We order tea. This is more like it. 

Sunday morning coffee in Sausalito, then we head to the dock to meet some friends for a sail (those Topsiders I bought in Hyannis are actually getting some use, who would have thought?). We motor out into the bay, and in no time, we're pulling this rope and tying that one, rigging, keeling, tilling. We are sailing baby! Flying! Every bit of 15 knots! By skylines and giant bridges and maximum security prison islands (click). And it's thrilling. I nearly spill my Dos Equis. 

Late-afternoon, we're making our way back to dock, gawking at the Golden Gate as the fog rolls in from the West. Soon the bridge is invisible, nothing between The City and Marin but us and thick white cloud. How does a mile of red steel disappear? I try not to act too surprised, something tells me this is common. 

Mom and I do a late dinner, Italian in North Beach. We agree that we could stay here for days, weeks even, and barely scratch the surface of all there is to see, do, eat, drink, purchase. We finish our gelato and realize, it's probably best we get going.  I pull out the superphone and check the way to Monterey. Market Street to US-101 to California 1. How's that for a route?

We step out to the rolling basslines and crowded cafes that line Columbus Ave. Love the vibe. All arty and smart and fresh and outdoorsy and bohemian. My kind of town, would love to stay a while. But it's not that kind of trip. 

San Francisco, CA

I arrive Thursday night after the long haul from Vegas. I'm not gonna glass-half-full it here, that drive is awful. The first eight hours are a hard fight versus gale force winds, dust clouds, eighteen wheelers and boredom. The only reprieve from the maddening highway comes when stopping in one-horse towns like Barstow, Bakersfield and Modesto for petrol at $4.29/gallon. It's a sad stretch of America, I recommend flying. 

But about 20 miles East of Modesto, everything changes. That's when the sky goes ocean blue. That's when things when things get lush.  That's when you know...

I suddently realized I was in California. Warm, palmy air-- air you can kiss. -Kerouac

We're in California! All is New! No rules! The Future!  - Eggers

Green hills, palm trees, Range Rovers... I must be close. Past Pleasanton, Walnut Creek, Berkeley, traffic is flying. I'm listening to Everclear, the Sparkle and Fade album.  Bumper to bumber to bumper, but everyone's doing 90, around sharp bends, down steep hills. I climb onto the Bay Bridge, and there's San Fran, beyond it, the Golden Gate, beyond it, the Pacific. I've made it. 48 days. 9,300 miles. Coast to coast to coast. 

Over the bridge and onto Embarcadero. I scale Nob Hill via California Street, weave through the Presido, pass the Haight, wiggle down Lombard, then cruise Columbus past City Lights Books and Kerouac Alley. No question, San Francisco is beautiful. But it's also completely insane. Dave Eggers describes it pretty well:

Of course, there is no logic to San Francisco... A city built with putty and pipe cleaners, rubber cement and colored construction paper. It's the work of fairies, elves, happy children with new crayons. Why not pink, purple, rainbow, gold? What color for a biker bar on 16th, near the highway? Plum. Plum. The light that is so strong and right that corners are clear, crisp, all glass is blinding. Stilts and buttresses and turrets--the remains of various highways--rainbow windsocks--a sexual sort of lushness to the foliage. Only intermittently does it seem like an actual place of residence and commerce, with functional roads and sensible buildings. All other times, it's just whimsy and faith. Even driving to and from the Castro is epic, this hill and that hill, this vista and that, always the hills, the curves, the maybe our brakes will fail, maybe someone else's brakes will fail--it's always kind of an adventure in faded technicolor, starring a vast cast of brightly dressed losers: homeless people wearing bathing suits and doing headstands on the sidewalk, activists throwing bagels at police in riot gear...

Dave Eggers

A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius

Thought that was apt. Anyway. I'm writing this on a Saturday. I've done nothing particularly interesting for the last couple days. I've had a few solid naps. Hung out in Marina coffee shops. Bought a $42 t-shirt that I didn't need terribly. I've met up with a few friends, we've had some casual beverages, some stimulating talk. The weather is not particularly good. Umbrella weather. Tomato soup weather. 

The thing is, I'm really enjoying myself. I am in San Francisco, in the Marina, no less, and therefore, I am "with it", I am "in the know"... These cheap shoes, this old-ass jacket? On purpose, both. It's called fashion. This computer, yeah, I chose it over the MacBook Air. It's really a question of capacity. And yes, I am blogging. I keep a blog. And I'm thinking of starting a startup, a social networking thing, I'm looking for a venture capitalist. This coffee is a bit blah, did you grind the beans today? Like, this afternoon? And may I have a heated ceramic cup? Ah, merci. Geez, Peet's is really falling off. Oh, you're from Manhattan? What streets? Actually, my friend is having a thing, just some friends and some new wine he just found out about, so I think I'm just gonna do that. Not really into the BarNone thing anymore. Yeah, I know a ton of people that went to Dartmouth.

All things I've either said or overheard on Union Street in the last 36 hours.  

Here for a few days. More anon.

Las Vegas, NV

Driving through the Nevada dark, hour nine of ten. I have to admit, I'm feeling more Jon Favreau than Vince Vaughn at the moment; I just want to get a nice room and a good meal, maybe gamble a little, hit the sack. 

But thirty miles outside Vegas, the sky starts turning from black to purple to red, and the the Strip comes into view. I'm thinking of all the Bugsy Siegals and Hunter Thompsons that have descended on this bright city before me, and all the energy and possibility down there. I exit onto Las Vegas Blvd, pass the famous sign, and cruise the strip. I turn on Shadowplay by The Killers, local boys, and give it a little volume. Okay, getting pretty fired up now. 

I take LVB all the way to the less glitzy, more historic end of the Strip, past several tuxedo shops/wedding chapels, and park it near Fremont. I find my way to a Binion's blackjack table and sit between a country singer from Austin and a straight-faced businessman from Tokyo. We three are an odd bunch, but the dealer keeps busting, we keep winning, and friendships are born. I take my handsome profit back to the strip and get a room. Ever heard of Bellagio? Yeah, my hotel is right across the street: Bill's Gamblin Hall and Saloon, home of the $29 all-you-can-eat surf and turf.

I clean up and jaywalk the Strip to Bellagio. Ava Maria is playing and fountains are dancing as I stroll in. I am Danny Ocean. A burly man in a suit welcomes me. Thank you, sir, I'm gonna rob you blind.

It's midnight on a Wednesday, but the place is packed. Conventioneers in name tags, bachelorettes in heels, poker players in sunglasses. I settle into another blackjack table, and I'm following all the rules. Hit that, split those, vary the bet. But at a critical moment, I break rule #1: Don't bet more than you can afford to lose... 

An embarrassingly high percentage of my net worth is on the table, and I'm dealt a 7-5. A fucking twelve. Dealer has a queen showing. 

Hit. Ace of spades. Thirteen.

Sign of luck, right? I tap the table. Hit. Dealer flips me a card, it tumbles in slow motion... 

Eight of hearts. Twenty-one.  I gather and stack the loot. I'm rich. I'm Floyd Mayweather. I'm out. 

Two-in-the-morning and it feels like 8pm. I find a bustling sushi bar inside the Bellagio, grab a table facing the casino, and order a $18 seared ahi roll. Miso, edamame, saki? Sure. I've got cash for days. 

I'm looking out at a row of expressionless gamblers feeding slot machines, pulling the arms mechanically. Cocktail waitresses, failed actresses perhaps, in high skirts and low shirts. Cigarettes dying in ashtrays. Relentless beeping and blinking and the false sound of coins hitting metal, coming trough a speaker. This is really an awful place, manipulative, depraved, garish and godless. I need a friend, a shower, a church.  

I hop in a cab at 3am. Spearmint Rhino, please. 

The house always wins. 

Road to Vegas

Wednesday morning, southwest Colorado, I'm at Durango Coffee Company mapping the day's route. There's a lot of desert highway between here and Vegas, about 600 miles, almost all of it non-interstate. Which means two-lane traffic and 55 miles per hour. Which means I have long day ahead. But with Monument Valley and Zion National Park along the way, there will be some unique photo ops, which I'm pretty stoked about. I charge up both cameras, grab an Americano for the road, and hightail it into Utah. 

Monument Valley

The landscape in lower Utah is flat and rugged and resembles the surface of the Moon, dusted in orange-red chalk. Not much life here. No wildlife, no trees, no powerlines... just me and the dusty road. Cue Where The Streets Have No Name, U2. 

Moving quickly South, toward Arizona, I begin to see plateaus peeking above the horizon.  Hidden only by the curve of the Earth, the formations grow taller as I approach. I can't help but accelerate: 60, 70, 80. Soon the view is too much to continue. I pull over and walk into the middle of the desolate highway. And there it is. Looks like a postcard. Click.

The first car to pass is a black Jeep Grand Cherokee, almost identical to the one that was supposed to make this trip. Click. I'm a little late on the shutter, but still, it's easy to imagine myself in that little car against that big beautiful world. I think I'll pin that one up somewhere. 

 

Zion National Park

Several hundred miles of uneventful Arizona desert later, I'm back in lower Utah, entering Zion. The $25 fee seems a bit steep, but it's really the only way through to Nevada. I pay with a $20 bill, two crumpled ones, nine quarters and some other loose change. So that's my financial situation.

Around the first bend, the scenery takes a turn for the dramatic. Suddenly I am descending into a deep canyon, hugging the curves of a too-narrow road. Cars weren't meant to go here, but thanks to some clever engineering and some arduous, indeed expensive human labor, here I am. And it's incredible.  $25 seems light, actually. 

(Note: In the interest of safety, I did not photograph the road which I describe above. My quick risk/reward calculation caused me to 10-2 it all the way to the bottom, where the following shots were taken. While I regret not being able to share with you and my future self, I'd say it's one of those 'gotta see for yourself to understand' things anyway. Like Monument Valley. Like Napoleon Dynamite). 

Continental Divide

Let's say two raindrops fall on Colorado, one inch apart. Say one raindrop falls to the East of a particular ridge, and the other drop falls on the West of it. Now say that the Eastern drop flows down a mountain, into a stream, to a river, to a bay that feeds into the Atlantic. The Western drop, let's say, flows the other direction, into different streams, rivers and bays that lead it to the Pacific. That ridge then, would be the Continental Divide. 

How geographers determined the exact ripple of North America that constitutes it, I'll never know. What I do know is that it weaves down the center of Colorado, and that no matter which side of it a raindrop may fall, that little guy has a scenic journey ahead. 

Denver, CO

I call Juan from Rapid City and let him know we're headed South toward Denver. He drops what he's doing, and when we arrive at 5pm on a Monday, he's left work early to show us around. What a guy.

We drive by the Colorado Capital, past a few architecturally ambitious museums, to Washington Park, around several stadiums, to 16th Street Mall, to Lower Downtown where we get out and walk. A few observations from the tour:

-Wash Park, wow. I've never seen so much concentrated physical activity. It looks like Olympic training facility rather than a public park. Kayaks, mountain bikes, and crazy devices that look like bobsleds with bicycle wheels. The airspace is crowded with volleyballs and footballs and a few of those hot pink frisbees that go really far.

-The Colorado flag has always struck me as odd; it looks like it should belong to Colombia or Costa Rica. I think it should be replaced with the Colorado license plate, which is wonderfully descriptive, and makes me want to move here and ski a lot.

-The good people of Denver clean up after their dogs, drive hybrids, wear comfortable clothes, recycle. Very wholesome. I think I'm going to start eating organic.

We make our way to a rooftop restaurant near Coors Field. The place is appropriately populated with a nice happy-hour crowd in jeans. From our table, we can hear the crowd next door at the Rockies game, and see the sunset over the warehouses and condos of LoDo. Denver on a summer Monday. Really an authentic moment. The kind that makes this crazy trip seem worthwhile and right.

We move to cozy bar on 17th Street, order a few drinks, and sink into big brown leather sofas and catch up. Katie shows up and lends her local perspective, "The best thing about Denver is that it is surrounded by the rest of Colorado". I can see that; Aspen, Vail, Telluride, Boulder are all pretty great. But I think Denver can stand on its own. Sports, scenery, music, art, food, industry, what more could you want? Sunshine? Pretty girls? Check and check.

Scott and I do Tuesday lunch on Josephine. Judging by our facial expressions, the road from Chicago has taken its toll. We're running on bar food and limited sleep. Our backs are sore, clothes dirty, wallets thin. Scott flies home today, but if I'm gonna make it to San Francisco this week, I'm gonna need an kick.

I drop him at Denver International, make the long drive back into downtown, and start flipping through On The Road...

I drive to 27th and Federal ("Our battered suitcases we're piled high on the sidewalk, we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life") then down Larimer Street ("Beyond the glittery street was darkness and beyond the darkness, the West. I had to go").

Energized, I point the Equinox toward the Rockies. Durango is not close. I'm going to have to drive really fast or improvise, and right now, I'm up for either.