Destination Eureka

Eureka -- More of a Place than a State of Mind

The summer of 1997 was the one before my senior year of high school. Something got into my restless little head that I should take a far-off and solitary voyage to some place I'd never been. I visited a travel agency (keep in mind this was back when people needed travel agents to "navigate" the Internet and book things for travel-planning purposes) and purchased a round-trip train ticket with money I'd saved from my part-time waitressing shindig.

Destination? Eureka, California. I had a friend there, who was staying with her sister for the summer, and she invited me to stay.

The train was to leave at 1:05 a.m. on Sunday July 13 from Salt Lake City and arrive in Sacramento at 3:05 p.m. the next day. (indiejade references her scrapbook, which has the train ticket stub and precise times). From Sacramento to Martinez via train, and then from Martinez to Eureka on a bus (train service not available).

I conked out sometime between 3 and 4 a.m., waking up at an undefined point in the harsh bright light of morning. . . I will not forget that morning. The train stopped in Reno after passing through long dry desert, eventually meandering into Napa Valley wine country. There is something almost indescribable about that sense of removal and distance layered over fascination and connection with a "place" while one is a passenger on a train. . .

But anyway.

By the afternoon, the train eventually reached Sacramento, right about on time at 4 p.m.. I exited the train and began searching for my connecting one. I checked my ticket and realized that I'd overlooked a fairly important detail:

The train to Martinez was not scheduled to depart until 6:30 a.m. the next morning.

. . .

Great thought I. There I was, stranded in an unfamiliar city overnight, and (as a naive 17-year old would be) without a clue. I cursed the travel agent who did not bring this little discrepancy of a 15.5 hour delay to my attention at the time I'd purchased the ticket. I cursed her a little more, and then decided to make the best of it.

The downtown train station was situated near a mall. Being in the time-killing mood, I visited the mall and proceeded to become inherently fascinated with the art of watching people. Indeed, some of the most fascinating observations of humanity I'd ever made to that point in life were made at that shopping mall. I think, perhaps, it even clinched my idea (at the time) to study anthropology.

For about 7 hours, I strolled, drank too much coffee: bitter coffee, sweet coffee, free coffee; mused, watched, observed and moved from point to point. All the time watching particular individuals in the crowds. . .all of them so fascinating: People in the city so self-absorbed, but at the same time, so invisible. Some beg to stand out from the crowd -- distinctive "loud" clothing/piercings/tattoos -- loners begging for attention. Others so wrapped up in their little bubbles, conveying defiance with not wardrobe, but stride and mien.

Nighttime found me in a nearby motel. Looking back, I'm surprised that this particular downtown motel was not more expensive than it was at the time. Maybe the train station people with whom I spoke about my crappy travel agent took pity or fear of lawsuit (kidding) regardless, my overnight accommodations were decent and not very expensive.

* * *

The train arrived in Martinez, on schedule, later the next morning. Unforgettable, that place is. . . my "stop over" time there was a few good hours and likewise did I make the best of it. Only, instead of strolling the crowded mall or city streets, I strolled the quiet city sidewalks. . .

One of the things that rings distinctive in my mind is the Martinez thrift store. . . hundreds upon hundreds of thrift stores, all of them teeming with old antiques and artifacts from centuries aged.

The scent of the ocean becomes a familiar and sometimes unnoticed or taken-for-granted aspect of oceanside living. . . but those that don't live nearby or become accustomed never fail to notice or to become enchanted. Salt. Salt and H20.

Afternoon brought some dark clouds, fog, and a splattering of rain. The bus traipsed up and up -- up into the redwoods of Northern CA. I was overtly awake and worried.

Indeed, after three days of the journey, I could not help but feel anxious that I'd somehow miss the destination stop. . . that the travel would have been in vain. But eventually it came. . .the final destination on the end road-map: Eureka.

Road Noise -- Part II

To keep going.

Noticing a hitch-hiker at a random point on the road: he is some middle-aged dark-skinned reservation native of the area. He's seemingly stranded at seven-something a.m. on a Friday morning. I feel bad for him and want to stop. I almost _do_ stop, but then remember the "all kinds of trouble" I tend to get into for doing so. . . it's nice to have protective younger (albeit bigger and stronger) male siblings who care, but at the same time, I have empathy.

Just when I'm about to turn around do I notice that the white pick-up truck that had been driving behind me stops; I am relieved and gladdened.

* * *

Mid-morning on Friday lands me just outside Page. I park my vehicle at a gas station and pop the trunk.

It's nice to have packed to be prepared for just about anything: gallons of bottled water and some food, de-icer for the windows and snow-cables for the tires, blankets and first-aid kit, flashlight and candles. Books, notebook, and writing utensils. My laptop and AC/DC adapter-kit designed to run off various power sources in a home, vehicle or airplane (geekette tendencies are inescapable :P ).

I remove from the stash an orange and some bread. Sitting on a landscape-deco-type rock underneath some scraggly tree at some gas station at nine in the morning, I feel peace: peaceful and content. . .. This eating an orange and surveying the distant grandeur of Lake Powell at the beginning of March (non-tourist season) is peace.

And then I notice: there is a giant Wal-Mart directly across the highway from the gas station!

My muscles literally "jumped." Startled, only semi-aware that the back pockets of my jeans had become caught on some rough-edge of the rock, I nearly fell off the landscape-deco rock into the gravel. My orange was not so fortunate: it met the gravel.

I'd visited this particular gas station many times during my travels back and forth across the west, but I'd never noticed a gigantic Wal-Mart SuperCenter. Wal-Mart stores tend to be not that difficult to miss. This one, at least, was not entirely obtrusive. Instead of blue, the store was brown. The parking lot was not shimmering black-tar, but something else. . . somewhat chameleoning into the landscape. Not all bad.

The road noise that is experienced during travel is not always audible. . . this I came to realize (and thus propelled to comment upon with these last couple of entries) and to respect.

Road Noise -- Part I

Journey begun and out, out the familiar door and past the familiar neighbors and buildings. Over the concrete, the thrum of tires and wayward potholes. Out, out the familiar streets and landmarks; the edge of town and gone. Hours pass. Gone, gone deep into the desert. . . a random dirt road taken, hellspent with momentum and to be out and away from the being of even a solitary being; dust kicks up behind my vehicle and rocks protrude sharp from the road but I do not care. Tumbleweeds fly by and wave as old familiar cronies might.

Camping. At altitude - in a small tent, on a gentle and sandy rise with but a lantern and a couple of blankets. March has taunted daytime; night turns to chill. Cold, no fire; with the warmth of some brandy and an old loaf of slightly stale french bread, I am satiated and moved to write.

Hand and wrist poised over a blank notebook page, the spiral is steely and cold. Words beckon elusively but will not come. My fingers are frozen; my mind electric. Easier does it become to close the notebook, turn off the lantern, and bury underneath the blankets myself. . . me, in the most dark and cozy realm of mind to cease. Curling in the way one can curl to maximize body-warmth retention, I clasp my hands and draw my knees into my chest.

Eyes closed. There is no defining point between night and day; the night becomes everything a mind can grasp when eyes are closed and there is a sense of comprehension between nothing and everything that might be. Eyes closed.

(realms)

Subtle morning. Morning. . . a tiny and minuscule degree in concentration of a square or circle or triangle of light somewhere is comprehended and quietly acknowledged behind closed eyes. The acceptance is taken with either a gentle acceptance or a defiant denial.

Mine usually seems to be acceptance. Opening eyes.

Opening eyes, I listen to the earth awaken from its slumber with or defense against the night: I cannot decide which. My tent has a billowing rain-flap on top, visible through the mesh. I stare at the shadows and patterns of texture of fabric and light upon. I hear the distant noise of a road and some vehicles. Their sounds come first as a relief, then as a source of disappointment.

Thank God I am not alone out here.

GAH! I'm really not that alone out here.

Dual emotions, countered and that feed off each other. Social angst vs angst of solitude.

Body still huddled into that body-warmth maximizing state, acceptance. Mind moving into that mental-expanse preparing state, continuance.

Morning light outside my little tent. A plastic bead of the rain flap in the breeze taps upon the fabric; with the largeness in subtlety of light, weak shadows begin to take form. I am ready to keep going.

(to be continued)

Adventures in Pizza Delivery

Today I had the least fortunate experience of delivering pizza to the most brainless teenager on the planet. Perhaps this is a bit of an exaggerated claim, but it's valid nonetheless.

Point #1: She did not know her own address.

I arrived at work about 15 minutes early (waiting to go to work is usually much less productive than actually *going* to work; but not today.) She had ordered three pizzas and wanted them delivered to her address. This is normal procedure for people who want food delivered: call-in an order for something to eat and just like magic, the food will be delivered to your door.

One necessary element of this magic is that the people calling in orders know the specific address where they want the food delivered, not just the name and approximate number on the street where they live.

4581? There is no 4581 in this cul-de-sac! I verified after double, triple, and quadruple checking.

Would my eyes deceive me so?

Of course not.

Delivering to imaginary houses now, are we? was one of the kinder thoughts that crossed my mind. Must call customer to find out wtf this anomaly is about was another, less-kind thought that crossed my mind as I searched for my phone.

But of course! My phone was nowhere to be found; I'd left it at home.

It was a small cul-de-sac. . . 6-7 houses. And since there was no house that matched the number of the house to which I was supposed to take the food, I did the only rational thing a person in my situation would do. . . I chose a house at random and knocked on the door.

The first person was very friendly about my inquiry, and after he informed that he had not ordered pizzas, he invited me to use his telephone. And thus I came to learn that the house across from his in the cul-de-sac was the one that had ordered. Never mind that the house number was not the one I'd been given.

Point #2 She did not know that people who order food must pay for it.

"Um, hi! Pay? Okay. . . I wanna use a credit card, to pay, is that ok?"

*a cricket chirps in the silence*

Sure! I'll just swipe your card through my portable magical credit card machine that I carry with me at all times!

"You need to call the store." I told her.

"Um, ok. How do I do that? Just call the store, and like, what?"

*crickets chirping in the silence*

"Yes. Call the store and tell them you want to pay by credit card."

*thousands of crickets chirping in the silence.*

And so she did.

Conspiratorially, as people having rogue phone conversations tend to do, she cupped her hand over the mouthpiece and asked me, "Credit card number? What is that? Is that the whole thing here?"

Point #3  She did not understand credit card fraud.

She signed her name for a card that was not hers. "It's my mom's card. Is that okay that I sign?" asked she.

*sigh*

I didn't even care. . . it was obvious that this day was going to be one of *those" days. What should have been a 7 minute run had turned into a 40+ minute run with all the waiting around. I could not help but think of all the time and money I was losing by standing there waiting for her to stop being brainless.

And of course she didn't tip. :( It was indeed a most crappy day.

Thirty-seven dollars for lunch, and a brush with death

Inches (or millimeters, if that matters) from death, I was not afraid. I *could* have been run over by the vehicle . . . squashed into some unrecognizable and bloody mess; and I would not have cared. But that I wasn't is a fact, and that I shall live for another day of pizza-delivering is as well.

Backing out from the alley, obliviously and unaware, the vehicle was stealth in its maneuverment. As I crossed the street on foot, "fresh hot" pizzas in hands, the vehicle seemed to be on some rampant bee-line path with my body. Closer. . . closer still; I was aware of its presence, and naively assumed it was aware of mine. But not.

The moment was not, but seemingly choreographed as a ballet would be. . . for my escape movements were indeed on tip-toe. And my tiny-person calves are to thank.

The rush of hot air and heady exhaust, the gleaning of sun on metal and plastic. . . there was undefinable space between the undefinable, and I blinked not once.

"This is Building # [ ] ?" I asked, after escaping the near-death experience.

"Yes, are you looking for [?] It's that way. . ."

As much as I'd expected, for I do know how to read a map.

Afterward, the dude gave me $42, inclusive of a tip. Good karma to him, I guess.

Zephyr

Writer's block is quite the interesting phenomena. If the state of my mind as it thinks and writes can be related to water, it would be such that it sometimes is a waterfall, cascading with a thundering intensity. Other times, it is a river, pulsing with a gentle current. Again can it be that the river moves voraciously as though after a summer monsoon that eventually settles to a mere trickle, hundreds of miles from its source.

Still yet can it be as serene and unfazed as a lake over which no wind stirs and no pebbles ripple. Be it wind or pebble that are the catalyst, the result is the same. . . as a zephyr would gain just enough momentum to curl the placidity, as a smooth round pebble would break the surface . . . entropy ensues. Writer's block then, is perhaps fear of becoming unfazed. . . of losing that serene placidity. And I think this is why so many writers simply cannot give up. Because once in motion always in motion. The divisions and boundaries between the deepest and most raw human proclivities become not only part of the person, but part of all people who read and connect. Writing keeps the writer alive in the sense that writing keeps writers alive.