Stranger in a Strange Land

Some thoughts I jotted down while heading north on Route 5 in California, between LA and San Francisco:

This Pennsylvanian knows she isn’t on the East Coast any more. The land passing by me now is strange to me. Part of the strangeness stems from the fact that California is a land of extremes. When California gets it wrong, the results are painful. We travel freeways where it would be faster to use cars as stepping stones than to drive. Twenty-foot purple gorillas advertise antique malls and car lots (yes, I’ve now seen two of these, and can’t help but suspect that more of these gorillas are in California’s mists). Streets cross at impeccable right angles, leading one through a geometrically pristine maze. Miles of houses pass by that are so identical that even their builders would have a hard time telling them apart.

But when California gets it right, the results can be spectacular. And California has a knock for inserting the spectacular in the most unexpected places and in some of the most unanticipated ways. I’m writing this while a passenger in my little Prius, driving north on route 5 through a cactus-less desert. Patches of some species of tall grass line the roadside and extend up into the hills. The grass has been parched dry, and is heavy at the apex with the seeds of the next generation. It’s the golden blond that Clairol has yet to figure out how to bottle and waves in the artificial breeze of passing vehicles. The waves make rippling patterns through the grass like molten sunshine.

We pass by one and then a second blackened blotch on the shoulder of the road, and I wonder if the state has done controlled burns to keep the roadside weeds in check. I belatedly realize it is more probably the result of careless smokers discarding their still smoldering butts out their car window. We pass by a charred stand of tall yuccas whose trunks are a mottled puzzle of black and grey and whose leaves are charred and twisted. I mourn a bit inside.

San Francisco is now 286 miles ahead, according to the sign. We pass an orchard with green-fruited trees. Here and there are touches of yellow and perhaps orange. Lemons? Oranges? I can’t tell. Next come fields of cultivated low bushes, covered in large yellow flowers. I see no fruit on the bushes, and have no clue as to their identity. The fields of corn I recognize, as I do the vineyards now passing by on the left.

I snap occasional pictures from the car. I miss some opportunities, such as the giant red cowboy boot being towed by a pick-up in the oncoming lanes, and the tandem truck of oranges. I manage to get a shot of the side of one of my fellow Priuses as we pass. We’ve seen three or four Priuses so far on this leg of our journey, two of which have had California exempt tags on them. These two also had signs on their sides indicating they are official carpool cars. I also snap some pictures of areas where the traffic congestion is so thick that you can’t see the road between the cars. I take pictures of the back of tractor trailers, which frequently are our only view of what lies ahead.

The landscape is alien to me here. Back home I know the names of the trees, the flowers, the birds. Here I could just as easily be on another planet. The trees don’t take on comfortable shapes, the flowers are bolder and more vibrant, and the birds are quick and difficult to follow with the eye. Several days ago in Arizona, I spotted a small alligator lizard while the Socialist and I trespassed on private property to get some pictures of Saguaro cactus, and I wonder now if any of the lizard’s cousins inhabit the arid land we now cruise through at 65 mph.

We enter the town of Lebec. Time for a late lunch, and then for me to take over the driving. Or maybe not. We continue on, looking for better fare than Carl’s Jr. and Mickey D’s.

Another grove of trees appears on the right, different from the citrus orchards I saw before. I see small green orbs on their branches. The Socialist tells me they’re almond trees, and I stare harder, trying to imprint their image in my head. I know that the next time I see them, I’ll have to repeat my question regarding what they are. I sigh at my feeble memory and again get the feeling of being in alien territory. We soon pass another lot of trees, and I immediately recognize them as almonds. The passing landscape suddenly seems a bit less foreign.