Road to nowhere
Part of the reason for our move to California was the feeling we’d got a bit stuck in the city back home — main roads, sirens, traffic, inner-city London and Bristol had got to us and scorched our souls.
So we’ve made sure to prioritise the good old-fashioned Californian road trip: with double-digit hours on the road, and planned destinations that take us back to nature and connect us with the good Lord above.
Tahoe was one of our first sojourns. The day before had been unexpectedly enjoyable in Sonoma wine country. I’d taken my husband to a few cool wine-tasting spots and a cheeky night away for his birthday. We met all sorts of great folk, and drank a LOT of wine — starting at 11am and finishing around midnight. It was my utterly brilliant idea to rush home the next morning, pick up the kids and set off on the 3 hour trip to Tahoe, en famille.
But I hadn’t accounted for great big stinking hangovers, or the major lightening and snowstorm that ensued — it took 7 hours.
At one point — 5 hours into the trip — it was looking like we’d have to turn back due to road closures in the thick snow. I cannot tell you how crushing this seemed, as we wilted into the seat leather with 2 tired squinks and a sweaty alcohol-induced brow. Weird too, when you think we’d left broiling hot sunshine just a few miles away.
We eventually arrived (just), practically in tears. My husband and I crawled out the car feeling sorry for ourselves, but the motivation to chill out kept us going. We arrived at Plumpjack Squaw — a cool place with just the right vibe. Turns out it’s a great place if you’re single, sans kids, and like hanging out in bars with live music and beer. So we put the kids to bed and both sat in the dark listening to everyone in the bar having a really good time.
The next morning the hangover hadn’t subsided. But Tahoe was breathtakingly beautiful. We checked out the ski resort, dragging our dusty heels to the heated pool at the top of Squaw Valley. We were the only ones there. On the way down, the guy in the ski lift was playing something that sounded great. I asked him what it was. Turns out it was a band called The Brothers Comatose. I have now anointed them my favourite American band.
We’d had the inspired idea to take the kids on Tahoe Gal — a 3 hour boat ride that took us around the Lake. The plan was to watch the kids go feral while we lay prostrate on the seats. It was beautiful. My husband turned green and I retched in the loo. But it was beautiful.
Another such trip was Sequoia National Park. My husband had been banging on about his childhood memories there, so it was only right to go and re-live these as a family, right?
The journey down was long and hot. We stopped in Fresno. I don’t have much to say about this experience. Urban Dictionary describes it thus: Fresno is the ‘5th largest city in California; 1st dumbest & drunkest city in America. Colloquially known by locals as “the Raisin Capital”, Fresno is more appropriately known as “where?” by everyone else.’ Their words, not mine.
Sequoia was beautiful, but hot. 97 degrees in fact. My over-riding memories of the 5 hour trip were the sheer number of Subways, Wendys, Dennys, Burger Kings and McDonalds on the long, straight dusty road. Pure, unadulterated American culture, like an instant shot.
Sequoia Day 1:
I felt exhausted and hot (think it was Fresno that did it). The kids played musical beds all night and we got zero sleep. We headed off on a day trip with my zealous husband pontificating about the beauty of the park. 20 minutes on the winding road, and my youngest puked all over the new car. 50 minutes on the roadside cleaning it all up (watching family upon family swing by, emulating the same situation made it almost comical). We finally made it to the General Sherman tree, but by then we were all exhausted and hot.
Sequoia Day 2:
I couldn’t be arsed to accompany my husband on the long walk in the midday heat (I was exhausted and hot), so he took the kids on a 10-miler. They had a great time. I lay by the pool. Bliss.
Sequoia Day 3:
By now, even the kids couldn’t be arsed. We all wanted to hang out by the pool. Think my husband was a bit pissed off about our lack of enthusiasm. But we had a great time chilling out in the mountains, slow-cooking ribs and listening to a lot of The Brothers Comatose.
Sequoia Day 4:
I was desperate to get back to an organic soya-decaf-gibralter (don’t ask) in San Francisco.
We’ll plan more trips — without hangovers, puking, heat and exhaustion. But I’ve taken 2 things away from our virgin forays on the Califonian roads to nowhere: the sheer beauty, space and spirituality of the land itself and The Brothers Comatose.
And I’m chuffed to nuts with that.
Books
Where’d you go Bernadette by Maria Semple.
Hilarious read — just what I needed after too many earnest and narcissistic muso-biogs. A scathing fictional account of a woman’s move to Seattle with her Microsoft-loving husband. Any book that reads ‘Seattle is the only city where you step in shit and you pray, Please God, let this be dog-shit’ has my vote. Funnily enough, it brought up many (exaggerated) comparisons with our own move to San Francisco.
Music
The Brothers Comatose — get ’em, stick em on and take a road trip somewhere beautiful.
