Route 66 Revisited?

On Sunday February 5th, I woke up feeling fatigued and depressed. What made that morning even more disappointing was that it was my birthday. It wasn't one of those benchmark birthdays like the previous year when I had celebrated my 65th. Starting my 66th year only meant, annoyingly enough, that I was continuing my march to 70.

I also felt achy, lethargic and aimless. I decided that I would will myself into the opposite psychological direction by embarking on an outdoor adventure, namely a hike along the river trail to the summit of one of Oregon's most famous landmark, located at Smith Rock State Park. Sometimes physical exercise in the fresh air has had the effect of knocking toxic feelings out of me and I sorely wanted to cultivate a positive attitude on my birthday. I thought that such an activity would be a just reward for my special day, one where I could look back in the future and remember what I was still able to do on this day in that year.

The round trip, descending first to the the base of the rock formation along the Crooked River and then to the summit and back to the starting point, is probably not much more than four miles long. For the most part the walk is on soft dirt interspersed with rocks and loose pumice, and wends its way through patches of juniper and ponderosa pine before turning sharply upwards. This marks the beginning of a series of steep and, on certain days, quite slippery switchbacks leading to the summit,  ominously named Misery Ridge. It has earned this disconcerting title as a result of its austere, sharp, rocky outcroppings and amazingly dangerous drop-offs.  Along with the hikers, the length of the trail also serves as access for rock climbers. These hardy-looking people, full of energy, seek to ascend the many vertical faces and tall pillars which loom like giant stone idols throughout the park. It is not uncommon to see people seeking crevices for their toehold while clinging to ropes stretched hundreds of feet in the air.

Since it was late afternoon, I encountered only a few people on the heavily-traveled single-track path. Although it is common to exchange superficial pleasantries with fellow hikers, usually about the trail condition, the weather, the dramatic vistas, or the wildflowers,  I was uncharacteristically reticent. I listened carefully to my body. I felt my joints and muscles loosening, my body sweating and my nostrils inhaling the cool dry Central Oregon air. I became less lonely but thought occasionally of friends who would have enjoyed the experience, although I have learned that companionship dramatically alters the powerful dynamic of solitude. I have become accustomed to undertaking many of my adventures alone, although it dismays some of my family who worry understandably about inherent perils. I don't blame them for caring, but I hope they understand that when I was a child I had been small, buck-toothed, insecure and was labeled as overly sensitive. In my family taking chances and developing physical prowess were considered to be in the domain of uneducated and most likely non-Jewish people. This attitude, understandable in the context of my parents' life experience in Nazi Germany, translated into their overblown desire for me to have safe passage through life. The cost to protect me from "unnecessary risk"  contributed heavily to further discoloring my self-image. My desire to take challenging hikes and other thrill adventures such as advanced downhill skiing and wading into swift rivers to fly fish may be my need to prove to myself that I now possess some semblance of  traditional masculinity. In any case, hiking provides ample time for reflection on a variety of ideas, but likewise can serve as a great distraction from my predilection of turning inward. My camera in hand is a reminder that this is the perfect time to see, smell, and feel the landscape outside me.

I believe the photos above will demonstrate the healing effect of the hike.

The first picture is a northwest view, with "Monkey Face" a climber's nirvana, in the foreground, and the snowy peak of Mt. Jefferson in the background. From this vantage point I was able to glimpse several other Cascade mountains, including Mt. Washington, Mt. Hood, The Sisters, and Mt. Bachelor.

The second picture showing the Crooked River meandering through this breathtaking canyon reminded me of how the day before I had gone fly fishing for sassy trout upstream from this spot. The invigorating coolness of the water and had renewed my appreciation for the natural beauty of "my backyard".

For the last shot I stopped about halfway down my descent and decided to capture the golden tones of the setting sun reflecting off of the canyon walls and adjacent farmland. I peered down at the road and parking area. The white dot in the center of the photo is my car.

I am already curious as to where I'll be next year at this time. Wherever it is, I am already determined to enjoy the tasty cake of life, load it up with candles and have abundant breath to blow them out. I will still be in the ring for another round. I am natural fighter. Yes I am.

More Things That Bug Me

Back in November I made a post about things that bug me. I listed a number of items which I found annoying. My son contended that I was just acting like a crabby old man and taking life too seriously. This observation has certainly some truth to it. Old dogs sometimes snarl when pestered. Then again, a number of younger blog followers wrote me some irksome moments of their own, a fact which suggests that lots of people live on the same planet as I do and also react vociferously to stupidity and pretension. Providing my litany of complaints also has a cathartic effect on me. By expressing these niggling vexations, I hope to find allies who identify with my pique and, most of all, share similar sentiments. I can't say exactly that it makes feel liberated, because stupid remains stupid whether it is declared to be so in a chorus or singly. Simply put, my sensibilities and intelligence feel the need to fight back, however futile. Consequently, the following are some additional things that bug me. 

I am not sure why exactly I am annoyed by service people, especially bank tellers, who ask, "How are we today?" or even worse, "How's Lee today?" First of all, the use of "we" sounds imbecilic. If you don't how "you" are, then how can you remotely grasp how I am? The second question about how Lee is, I find even more annoying. I often answer, "Gosh, I think that Robert E. died in October 1870." I understand the rationale that employees are instructed to learn the first names of customers in order to generate intimacy and trust, but this technique reeks of hapless superficiality on a par with the closing response, "Have a Nice Day." 

At a supermarket checkout counter it bothers me when the cashier queries, while I am numb with sticker shock,  if I'd like to round the cost of my purchase up to give to Easter Seals. My urge is to say, "Speaking of deserving people, would Safeway care to subtract down and give the shopper a break?" 

How about people who refer to Hannukah as "Jewish Christmas"? Aside from the fact that such a statement shows true ignorance, it is also depressingly egotistical, as if everybody else's cultural wealth were created by God solely to realize the mission of Christianity. Maybe for a while Moslems should start calling Easter Week "Christian Ramadan."

How do you feel about buying crab spelled with a "k"? I know it is supposed to be like crab, but it is really fish with additives, plain and simple. It is no more crab than a cat is a dat or a dog a cog.

I bet all of you feel the same as I do about people who forget to flush the toilet or urinal in public bathrooms. Even now, I don't want to think about looking down at someone else's pee or mentioning the odor. For Pete's sake, must I say more?  

Speaking of sanitation, when using a fast food restaurant or public eating area, why is it so difficult for people to remember to clear their place? I am constantly throwing away other patrons' cups, paper containers, or napkins in order to feel comfortable at my table of choice. Eventually some waitperson will come and clean up the mess, but in the meantime, must I look at your half-finished chocolate shake and your greasy fries wrapper?

Has anyone eaten at a buffet or salad bar lately? The salad plates are saucer size and the dinner plates look like they belong in a doll house. In both cases they have become so small that you have to pile up your food like a culinary Tower of Babel and this creates a sloppy, unaesthetic, unappetizing mixture. Throw on a couple pieces of lettuce and your plate is full. It is virtually impossible to keep vegetables or dressing from spilling off the sides. It is not difficult to realize that the restaurant's use of small plates is a cost-saving method intended to direct customers to eat tiny portions. Now, I don't approve of gluttony and never liked seeing folks walking off with mountains of food which they can't finish. Neither do I appreciate the restaurant providing cheap, crappy service either. How do you like dem apples?

What is your opinion of a driver who takes up two parking spots by hanging his big vehicle over the line, leaving only the incredibly numerous empty handicapped spots available for parking? 

RECEIPTS: Cashiers have been trained to stuff them in your hand when they give you change after a purchase. Sometimes they even fold one around your credit card. I understanding needing evidence if you buy clothing, but for a cup of coffee? What a total waste of paper, and such litter! After you drink your disappointing java can you imagine waving your little paper and demanding a refund? Don't tell me this piece of trash is essential for your tax return.  A receipt, on the rarest occasion, is proof for a reimbursement. It should be available on request, which will keep the rest of the people from dropping it on the floor or crushing it in the nearest garbage can. 

I am annoyed by salespeople who pass off a clearly stupid policy on "Corporate." For some reason they act like they commiserate and that nothing can be done, and hope, you will, like a dumb sheep, go away. My urge is to say, "Let's get f....ing Corporate on the phone and tell them how much we think the idea sucks." After all you know how much the management desires feedback!

Well I have provided a list of ten irritations. Sadly, I have more, but will gladly save them for another time. After all this bombast maybe I will watch TV to calm myself. After all, what is wrong with seeing the same commercial repeated over and over again. 

Mountain High

These past several weeks I have been going every day either on short hikes or, whenever the conditions have cooperated, downhill skiing. Above are some pictures I have taken on some of my recent outings.

The first scene was snapped from the deck of the mid-mountain Pine Martin Lodge at Mt. Bachelor after a "bluebird" morning on the slopes. It shows the snowy peaks of South Sister, one a series of three inactive, closely clustered volcanos. Several years ago, I climbed to this lovely lady's crest and consider that trek to the summit the quintessential event of my love affair with hiking. I memorialized the experience by using a photo of my happy but exhausted self as the signature picture for my adventure blog. Today's picture shows a double-layered lenticular cloud, looking like a white bonnet, resting jauntily on the sister's top. If you are curious about this aspect of climatology here is a link to Wikipedia.

The second shot is a perspective of the Cascades taken from the high desert east of Bend. So many people from out of state believe Oregon is a rainy, green, mountainous state, but don't realize that well over half the state is dry and flat. The mountains serve as shield to prevent marine moisture from crossing over them and the result is an ecosystem filled with juniper trees, sagebrush, and rocky outcroppings. Under the ground of the desert are miles of lava tubes, some of which have openings that beckon to cave-exploring enthusiasts. On the day this photo was taken, I was on my way to Pictograph Caves, a hard-to-find destination, where some intriguing Indian drawings can be found adorning its opening.

The third picture is a panoramic view of Mt. Bachelor taken from Bend's Old Mill District, a shopping complex tastefully constructed on the site of an old lumber mill. While standing on one of the miles of riverfront walking paths which meander along the Deschutes River, I spied a number of mallard ducks and pesky Canadian geese bathing in the last glow of sunlight. In the distance looms the imposing, timeless form of the mountain, gazing like a stately, benevolent king surveying his kingdom. His Majesty has bestowed on me some of the richest moments of my life while hanging on to his flanks.

Under the magical light and deep mysterious shadows cast from the jagged, crowned horizon, I do my best to mark my days in increments of joy. The magnetic force which lies within the mountains' heights holds an essence that has embraced me and granted me the thrill of feeling alive. What better backyard could a fella ask for in which to play?

Dedicated to Christopher Hitchens

The passing of Christopher Hitchens has caused me to look intensely at my life and to examine some of my earliest memories concerning religion. Consequently these past several days my daily adventure has criss-crossed the trail of recollection leading to my childhood and has led me to a puzzling landscape of long ago. Sadly I have come to realize that so many key memories are like peaks lost in the clouds or are, more similarly, like unrecoverable bytes drifting in cyberspace from a damaged hard drive. I feel like a historian who has to do research on a time where the documents no longer exist and the people who could possibly reveal pertinent information have perished. Even so, the challenge remains the same, namely to glean from the few memories a semblance of truth without judgment.

I assembled a list of questions to help me with the task, which included when I first knew I was Jewish and did I ever truly believe in God. It would be simple if the genesis of my Jewish identity were attributable to one poignant moment, like the recollection of my mother showing me the mezuzah on our doorpost, or on a particular Saturday morning standing next to my father at the temple as the Torah was carried about the sanctuary, helping him touch the scroll with his tallis. Yet this is not the case. Judaism enveloped me gradually and seeped uninvited into my consciousness. Its presence almost totally pervaded my family's social and cultural activities and, like oxygen in the air, I breathed it in automatically.

I don't know when I learned the imperative to believe in God, but at an early age would have professed that I did. I had heard the word in the English translation of Hebrew prayers which were recited and had sensed that this figure played an important role in evaluating the high moral Jewish life that was expected of me. Although I misbehaved a lot, I so much wanted to be understood as a good boy. Believing in God felt obligatory in order to achieve this goal. My first vision of God came while lying in bed before falling asleep. I saw a tall, kindly man looking at me who I thought was God. Only later I realized the face was that of the father of Peter Meyers, a friend who lived across the hall. I suppose many children have similar fantasies. Christian children may have been instilled to see the face of Jesus, but when I asked my son about his first vision of God, he narrated that he had also seen a familiar face, except it was the face of the man he knew from the tail of Alaska Airlines planes. To this day I still feel the compulsion to believe, but not necessarily the conviction.

Another question I sought to answer was this: When had I become aware of Christians or Gentiles? Early on, I sensed and learned by listening to my parents' conversation that non- Jews were superficially friendly, latently dangerous, and quite different socially from Jews. Also there were many more of them than us. One of my first memories was of the nursery school to which my mother took me. It was housed in a spacious playroom attached to a Baptist church. As soon as she left I felt abandoned and sat for hours pushing wooden block trains around waiting to be picked up. Feeling like a captive in an ominous building with strange windows, odors, and spires, I knew this place belonged to Gentiles, not us, and it awakened a certain angst which I can still feel today. Also Hyde Park, on Chicago's South Side where I lived, was located near many run-down black neighborhoods. Whether riding with my mom on the IC elevated train to go downtown, traveling by car to my father's sign shop, or looking out the window of streetcars or buses, I saw what was then called "colored people" who, above all, looked scary to me and who also were definitely not Jewish. In fact, I began to believe that I belonged to a family and group that was special and smarter than others and that my sister, cousins, and Jewish friends appeared to feel the same way. I remember never wishing to believe in Santa Claus or having a tree. If anything, I may have thought that Christmas time seemed like a season of weird, silly behavior for others, although I enjoyed the catchy melody of Jingle Bells.

I would be remiss if I didn't relate when I first became aware of anti-Semitism. My parents, who were Holocaust survivors, clearly didn't want to frighten me with gruesome personal stories which, in part, they strove to forget. Nonetheless, on many a Saturday evening, my parents entertained other Jewish couples in our livingroom to discuss the painful past. I was allowed to listen for a while, but then was sent to bed. I understood so little, but was intrigued by the energy level and earnestness of the talk. I would creep out of bed and lie out of sight in the bedroom hall to listen. I heard words like Hitler, Nazis, Roosevelt, the Pope, Catholics and Protestants. Eventually my eavesdropping was discovered and I was ushered off to bed. I knew something bad had happened to Jews but it took place somewhere else, at a different time, and I felt reasonably safe. Likewise on my 5th or 6th birthday, my Uncle Paul and my father started me on my lifelong hobby of stamp collecting and because my parents spoke German, stamps from Germany took on a special importance. I remember sticking into my book little pictures of the bad man I had heard about, Hitler, and attaching a colorful series of stamps embossed with swastikas. These stamps took on a special value to me, as if by hinging them to pages I insured that they couldn't hurt me.

I have struggled to recall when I was first exposed to direct anti-Jewish sentiments. Like children who have buried memories of abuse, there must have been some catalyst which first generated the festering fear of man's cruelty that I still experience today. I know that actual derisive comments by mean-spirited classmates started when I was a pre-teen in Junior High, but by then I had already felt a much greater malevolent, albeit subtle, threat planted in me. It manifested itself as an internal voice that quietly urged me to accept Jesus and Christianity as the true path and reject traditional Judaism. It is possible that the wife of the caretaker of our building, Mrs. De Baer, was a zealot. I think one day she found me playing in the garden by her apartment and told me of the importance of loving Jesus, but I can not be certain. In any case, as an emotionally vulnerable six- or seven-year-old, I lacked the ability to respond. Many other important non-Jewish adults delivered the message in a myriad of ways that it was wrong to be Jewish. Even on television, while changing channels I came upon evangelists preaching to a public which included me. I understood little of what was said, except I felt threatened, almost terrified, by a deep voice in me that told me I was supposed to listen, betray my roots, and give myself up to an obvious truth. Consequently I would rapidly change the channel. Even today I still feel hounded by the voice and therefore have developed a visceral repugnance when I see crucifixes, churches with inane messages marketing faith on their readerboards, Christian bumper stickers, fish car ornaments, or signs attached to trees telling me to "believe" and be "saved." Some evangelicals with whom I have spoken have claimed self-servingly that, what I began to hear as a child is in fact the true voice and love of God. I also have been told that certain coincidences in my life were actually spiritual omens being revealed to me. One thing I do know for certain is that this alleged offering of love which started when I was a child generated both anxiety and guilt throughout my life. Today I see the voice as a virus or a poison embedded in my system which my will has combatted unceasingly all these years.

After reading Christopher Hitchens it seems easy to agree that religion is based on dangerous myth from a more primitive time of human existence, and that it robs people of doing genuine, righteous acts. He suggests that a secular world based on honesty through science and reason is preferable and more applicable for our times. Tonight I ask myself if would I be willing to forfeit the value of the fond childhood memories of my father on Shabbat tearing off pieces of Challa, putting salt on them and, like precious stones, handing the twisted bread to my mother, my sister, and me because I know that the idea of the ceremony is really based on nonsense. Is it worth the sacrifice in order to paint life accurately in logical tones?

It is growing late and my inability to resolve this issue in my mind is beginning to feel toxic so that further consideration best be postponed. Instead it may be time to calm myself and listen on Pandora radio to Vivaldi's exquisitely beautiful Baroque music and sense through its inspiring continuo the praise of God who is forever turning the wheel of the universe. Then again, I could watch the evening news.

Bridging the Gap?

Last Friday, while I was still in the San Francisco Bay Area, I travelled through a remote section of Marin County to the Golden Gate Recreational Area. The landscape consisted of a series of chaparral-covered high peaks which dropped majestically to the bay and ocean revealing rocky isolated coves, Cape Bonita Lighthouse, Stinson Beach and Fort Cronkhite. A windy road from Hwy 101 took me to a dramatic promontory and raptor sanctuary, Hawk Hill. I stopped at the viewpoint turn-out and was treated to one most resplendent views of the Golden Gate Bridge imaginable, a dramatically different angle of the world-famous gateway than the traditional perspective I had photographed from San Francisco the week before.

Camera in hand, I stood on a 1000-foot bluff overlooking the Bay, with the ocean at my back, looking south and east, and admired the beloved span which sometimes lay shrouded in fog and then magically revealed itself drenched with intense sunlight. The scene was like an art masterpiece, a perfectly designed architectural wonder, highlighted by one of the world's most memorable skylines in the background.

After snapping a few pictures, I noticed an information board that had been installed at the scenic overlook. It related that in 1846 John C. Fremont, a captain with the Army Corp of Topographical Engineers, had been first to map this breathtaking location and give it the title, the Golden Gate. Almost a hundred years later, in 1937, the bridge was built to accomodate the needs of the ever-expanding modern world and given the name that Fremont had recorded.

I was amused by the scarcity of words devoted to the man who had probably contributed more than any other individual to the development of the West. Identifying Fremont simply as a captain was like calling Benjamin Franklin a postmaster or Abraham Lincoln a railsplitter. Fremont had been one of the greatest American figures of the 19th century. Among his many accomplishments was that he had mapped the Oregon Trail and had written the definitive guidebook called Report and Map which was published by Congress to aid the thousands of immigrants who were traveling by wagon train, especially during the Gold Rush, to California. Also, after mapping huge chunks of the Midwest, accompanied by his guide Kit Carson, Fremont had undertaken a series of four daring expeditions across hostile Indian lands in order to explore the new frontier. His expedition of soldiers criss-crossed both the Northern and Southern Rockies in search of a suitable rail route to facilitate future development and to identify important landmarks. Fremont had also mapped the Klamath Basin, the volcanos of the Cascades and the Sierras, and the location of Lake Tahoe. He was also asked by President Polk to lead his troops in the fight to take California from Mexico and incited the murder of a number of peaceful Mexican leaders and, as second in command behind Robert Stockton, attacked and conquered Los Angeles. In addition he had fought and killed Indians in Oregon. These heroic deeds made Fremont into an almost mythical figure who became known by an adoring public as the Great Pathfinder. His life became the subject of fictional tales told in numerous penny novels which were read avidly by thousands of Easterners who yearned for a vision of adventure on the frontier.

Riding the wave of such popularity, Fremont ran for president in 1856 against James Buchanan on a platform of free land for settlers and the abolition of slavery. His campaign slogan of "Free Soil, Free Men, Fremont" resonated with many of those that embraced the idea of Manifest Destiny. He also became an avid abolitionist who opposed the extension of slavery into the new lands and had the support of the New England intellectual establishment. Although he lost, he remained popular in the drawing rooms of Washington and then was given command during the Civil War of the Army of the West and later attacked Confederates in Kentucky and Tennessee. In 1864 he ran for president again, this time as a Radical Republican against a man from his own party, Abraham Lincoln, who he believed was soft on outlawing slavery and on the treatment of the rebellious South. After the war he became Governor of the Arizona Territory, then purchased a railroad, and lived to the age of 77.

Fremont's exploits remind me how far removed my life has been from those accomplishments of true explorers. The route of my daily adventure takes me safely down major highways with the aid of GPS. Along the roadside I find cozy campgrounds with flush toilets. The only Indians I really know play baseball in Cleveland. I don't worry about disease, lack of provisions or the cold. I consider myself brave when I have hiked for the day on a well-marked trail into a wilderness which is devoid of large animals. My Golden Gate has long been charted, commercialized, and serviced by maintenance crews. When I look across the horizon at the massive blue water bisected by that iconic bridge, I know the current below me is hazardous. My path is neither gallant nor formidable nor is it my place to swim across. Yet I honor the tradition of boldness of a past time through remembrance and occasional acts of courage. From somewhere within, I can hear the call of adventure, albeit it is a muted and distant tone. The wilderness is gone. Even though a camera is hardly a six-shooter or my car a trusty mount, I explore distant lands and experience the joy of conquering the unknown. With the wind in my face, I take on the challenge.

Chinese Characters?

In the two weeks I have been in the Bay Area, I have spent a lot of time among Asian-Americans. Last night in Starbucks, where I have been working on my posts, of the 24 people who were sitting at tables, relaxing in easy chairs or standing in line, 18 appeared to be of Chinese background. The city of San Bruno may have a greater enclave of Asians than other communities, but that is not saying much. All the communities here abound with people who are of Asian background. This thought was underscored on Saturday while I was driving through a residential neighborhood. I spied a For Sale sign placed in front of a home; other than the phone number, the sign was written almost entirely in Chinese.

On Sunday I ate at a renowned dim sum restaurant, the Grand Palace, a massive, tastefully decorated Chinese restaurant in South San Francisco. It was packed with families representing three generations who were seated around lazy susans which were covered with tasty dishes. The food was wheeled out to the guests on numerous large silver carts or carried out from the kitchen in sumptuous portions and served by incredibly polite women. Such fare consisted mainly of seafood such as whole fish or lobster in red sauce over noodles, or platters of Peking duck or suckling pig.

Wherever I have been, I have sensed a mood and behavior of the people which I have found surprisingly refreshing. I have been touched by the refinement and smiles seen on the faces of young people engaged in light-hearted conversation, the intensity of college students hovering over laptops as they diligently solve math problems, the banter of incomprehensible words by genteel families that appear to be tightly-knit and financially comfortable, and by a certain level of unconditional respect shown to me.

Absent were many of the traits which are often called a malaise in our society such as an undeserved sense of entitlement, a lack of commitment to the value of learning, a disintegration of strong family bonds, and a poor sense of the value of money which is exhibited through profligate spending. Curiously, I heard no one expressing opinions regarding the allegedly unique political or economic crisis which has been grabbing national, state and local headlines. These people appear to be focused elsewhere and appear too busy achieving success to feel the pinch that other groups are experiencing.

Considering that the anscestors of so many Asian-American families lived through dark times in America's past or suffered from the autocratic oppression in their former homeland, these Americans have demonstrated an amazing resilience. It is worth recalling the terrible racism exhibited toward Asians by the policies of the "Know Nothing" mayors of San Francisco or the backlash by angry racists who murdered over 250 Chinese railroad workers and their families in one night in Rock Springs, Wyoming, in 1887. Through the turn of the 19th century including the round-up and incarceration of Japanese citizens in the 1940's, American-Asians have been the object of mean-spirited people who, out of fear or jealousy, have tried and failed to marginalize these people.

As my stay draws to a close, I feel enriched by the casual friendships I have made and by the values I observed. Although I have oversimplified and generalized, I am not a Pollyanna. Shortcomings and detractions abound within every culture. Simply put, my frequent cynical view of human interaction was softened and was replaced by positive thoughts. From that standpoint, I had entered a room with good feng shui.

On the Road Again

I am in the San Francisco South Bay again and am adjusting to this amazingly crowded suburban life. As I walked along El Camino, easily the busiest surface street on the peninsula, and which had been the main North-South highway until the Bayshore Freeway was completed, I found myself recalling the first time I rode on it in 1957. I was probably 10 or 11 and my parents were considering moving away from Chicago and were touring this part of Northern California. Our family had ridden west like so many other pioneers to see first-hand what had been called in those days the Land of Opportunity, California.

Our 1953 green Chevrolet Bel-Air had taken us across the country through what I felt had been magical landscape. I watched incredible farmland whizz by, lush forests, quaint small, towns, tall majestic mountains, until we reached our goal, the almost mythical San Francisco: the Bay, the Golden Gate Bridge, and the Pacific Ocean.

Along the route across the country, I had become accustomed to seeing architecture other than I had known in Chicago, buildings which were devoid of soot-covered brick and multi-stories. I gawked avidly at the clapboard farmhouses and the wooden barns with advertisements painted on their sides such as Chew Mail Pouch Tobacco. I enjoyed the humor of every Burma Shave sign sequence along the road and was enthralled by miles of two-lane highway snaking alongside railroad tracks belonging to the Santa Fe railroad.

After briefly touring San Francisco, a city which felt alien to me because it didn't look like Chicago, my perpetually nervous mother, who always had to cope with my father's frightening, unpredictable moods, decided unilaterally that this city would be too rainy for her. The next morning we headed south through Daly City, a peculiar colony of little boxy houses, and onto El Camino. Somewhere then I learned a new word, namely "stucco." Now I saw blocks of single level, pale-colored stores and houses made of a rough substance which reminded me of the dessicated orange peels that I had ignored as they baked in the sun of my childhood schoolyard.

Since I was now in the Promised Land of my parents' dreams, I felt I was expected to love what I saw. I knew instinctively, but being a child I could never have articulated, that the environment before me violated my sense of beauty. Even the eucalyptus and the palms didn't really look like normal plants. They were occasionally interspersed among these ugly structures, but were clearly not leafy green trees that a young boy could climb like those elms whose heights I had still conquered and hid within only a month earlier at home. As we rode through Palo Alto looking for a motel, my parents may have spoken, as they often did, in glowing terms about the expected blessings of temperate weather, the daily sunshine and the gone-forever dreaded icy cold Chicago winters. Yet, even as I listened to this narrative, I believed I was expected to embrace their gloriously optimistic vision. In truth I wondered secretly how I would feel about no longer hearing the scrunch of October leaves that skittered in circles along the pavement in my former backyard and sensed regret about losing the snowmen friends that I took pride in creating each year.

Now I glance out the window of a Starbucks in San Bruno where I am typing and see the rush hour traffic on El Camino backed up at a traffic light. Originally this street was a trail for earlier people to navigate from mission to mission, and before that it was probably an ancient way created by aboriginal people to visit others or hunt game. It has been a lifepath taken by many. Today I am on that road, one of so many I have traveled to get to this point on my daily adventure. It runs in space and time through landscape that may look bitter or sweet depending on my focus.