A Trip to the Bay Area

Or: An Adventure into Another World

Me reading in Point Reyes

~

I recently returned—last night—from a six-day saga in the San Francisco Bay Area. Coming back to Lompoc after time in the Bay is like returning from Fiji to Detroit. Ok. Maybe not that bad. But not too far off. Even more so since my final two nights were spent backpacking in beautiful Point Reyes. (I’ll get to this.)

I drove up on the morning of Friday, April 12. I needed a break, a recharge, a transformative experience, and the Bay, being only 4.5 hours north of Lompoc, is the ideal spot. As many of you long-time readers know, I lived in the Bay Area for a decade, from January of 2008 to March of 2019, when I fled for Manhattan after a rough breakup.

Despite all the media accounts of the rabid rising crime in the Bay—which, generally speaking, as far as I can tell are mostly true—it’s still one of the most culturally-dense, ethnically and racially diverse, intellectually-stimulating, and fun places to visit. I’m not saying I’d live there again—been there, done that—but visiting is another affair.

The drive north along good ole golden U.S. 101 is as comforting as a lover’s soft, luxurious kiss. I’ve been driving that freeway all my life, first as a passenger in the 1980s and for the past 25 years as a driver myself. How many wild, drunken nights were spent caroming along various stretches of that road as a punk rock teen? How many drives from San Diego, where I lived in 2005-2007, north to Ventura and Ojai, where I was born and raised? How many times did I make the 12-hour trek—most of which included both 101 and Highway 5—from the Bay Area to Portland, Oregon? And that one trip where I drove from the Bay Area up to Seattle and Back, most of which was the slow route along 101. (The small, gorgeous little coastal towns saturated with meth.)

Anyway I was staying with a good friend of mine from “The Program” (AA) who I’ll call Bill. He recently inherited a house from a close friend in Oakland, on the east side right off 580. His economic status changed fast after that happened. I’m happy for him. White-haired, twenty years my senior, and one of the kindest men I’ve ever known, he had a rule of “you-can-stay-anytime-you-want.” It’s not just with me: He treats all people with almost unbearable thoughtfulness, warmth, and the benefit of the doubt. Many times over the years I’d stayed with Bill, first in his old apartment up in the hills of Berkeley, and now in his spare bedroom at his Oakland house. He keeps talking about pulling a Steinbeck a la Travels with Charley and, at some point, taking to the road in a van or RV with his two small dogs and traveling the country. Why not? He has no kids and isn’t married. He could rent the house out for income.

Along the drive I listened to two things: Norman Mailer’s Collected Letters (J. Michael Lennon) via Audible, and John Mayer’s 2012 mellow, bluesey, and extremely catchy album, Born and Raised. *(Thank you, Anna.) I’d brought too much stuff, all sitting in the back seats and trunk of Britney’s [white] Prius, or, as Bill calls it: The White Penis: My backpacking pack stuffed with gear and dry-frozen food; bundles of clothes I probably wouldn’t use; and my ancient blue-and-gray messenger bag I’ve had forever overflowing with a dozen copies of my punk-literary novel which just came out, The Crew.

The consummate salesman—I can’t deny my obvious ambition and drive for success, money, notoriety if not fame—I planned to bring the copies of my novel (mostly paperbacks with two or three hardcovers) to my writer-friend Allison Landa’s 50^th birthday bash at the Telegraph Beer Garden in Oakland. *(Allison is a brilliant writer and the author, so far, of the incredible memoir, Bearded Lady.) I knew there’d be other writers at her shindig.

*

Anyway when I arrived—around 3:30pm—Bill was finishing up with work. (Remote since Covid.) We chatted while he smoked on the balcony. In the background you could see a snippet of the shimmering blue bay, tall pine trees all around, and could hear the grotesquely loud noise of 580 which seemed to scream dully all around us. Next door was a crumbling craftsman which a neighbor had not tackled since inheriting from his father.

That night I drove The White Penis and picked up Bill’s 30-year-old friend and his new sponsee. Bill always seemed to be the father figure for one or two new, young, lonely men. It was his way. I respected that. The AA meeting—my first live, physical meeting in over a year!—was at 8:30pm in Mill Valley. A meeting Bill and I used to frequent together back in 2018, when life was much different than now. It’s odd how life changes under your feet, isn’t it? In 2008, at the tender age of 25, I moved with my ex-girlfriend Rose to San Francisco, after a six-week sojourn through Europe, staying on an old Ojai buddy’s couch who’d moved there years prior. Now, in 2024, I was 41, married, sober nearly 14 years, and living in Lompoc after having spent 2.5 years in New York City. My father had passed. Strange, this thing we call existence.

*

The next day—Saturday April 13^th—was one of the busiest days of my life, and I wasn’t even working! Bill and I chatted in the morning—his white hair sprouting out in all directions like a shocked troll-doll—and then he drove us to another [men’s] AA meeting, my second live one in less than a day. This was a meeting I’d gone to often circa 2012-2015. I knew I’d see some familiar faces. It was on College Ave in the trendy Rockridge area. I got tea from good ole Cole’s Coffee. The meeting was solid. The speaker—an old wrinkled Black man wearing a fedora and a thick leather jacket, with a solid 14 years sober and an incredible story—was fantastic. I didn’t see as many familiar faces as I’d hoped. A few. I chatted briefly with one.

After the meeting I met up with Bowen Dwelle, Substack writer extraordinaire (creator of AN ORDINARY DISASTER). We had Thai food on College Ave. We ate and then strolled. At Pegasus Books across the street from Crepevine, we walked in and I was surprised—I shouldn’t have been—to see that an old friend of mine was working. He’d been there for a decade. He heard my voice and turned. We smiled and hugged. I introduced him to Bowen. Turns out my buddy was now the manager. I happened to be wearing my messenger bag over my shoulder (you never know when you might need a copy of your book to give away or sell). He put several copies of the book out in the New Fiction Section, right next to Ottessa Moshfegh, who’s one of my contemporary literary heroes. To say I was honored is an understatement.

After that Bowen and I grabbed coffee at another old staple of mine, Hudson Bay Café, across the street from the Library and from the old Korean Church where in the basement my all-time favorite men’s meeting was once held, which I attended religiously from 2012 to 2018. Mostly, Bowen and I talked culture wars, travel, his memoir manuscript, literature and writing. As always, it was great. We turned around and I walked him back to his van. On the way we stepped into Diesel Books as well. I chatted with the woman behind the counter about my novel and she gave me an email and said to reach out to their bookseller. Later that night I did so.

*

Post-Bowen I found a hipster coffee shop which used to be called something else but is now called—appropriately—“Ain’t Normal.” This is a perfect title and is, of course, ridiculous. But Oakland is ridiculous. It’s the trendy Brooklyn of the West Coast. Where else can you get the ghetto and rich white kids mixed together along with light drizzle, unicycles and lefty politics? (I watched the unicyclists out the window from inside the café as the drizzle fell in gray streaks.)

At 4:30pm I met Allison at Zacharay’s Pizza, the old classic deep-dish pizza place on College that’s been there forever. (Forty years, more accurately.) We had fun doing our addictive, absurd conversation thing wherein we understood each other as only cemented writer-freaks can. Two aliens grasping the meaning of life as few others can comprehend it. It never fails to shock me with Allison, how the conversation bobs and weaves and snakes in and out as naturally as a crack addict gets high. It is The Way with us.

By 7:30 she’d dropped me off back at Bill’s, but not before coming up for a house tour and inviting Bill to her 50^th birthday bash the following day. He accepted.

*

The next day—Sunday, April 14^th—was the birthday bash. It was at 2pm. Bill and I did our thing in the morning. I listened to Mailer’s letters, wrote physically in my little black journal, drank way too many cups of Irish Breakfast tea, called Britney on her way to work, and showered. By 12:15 we’d taken off in Bill’s car for College Ave again. This time for a plant from him for Allison and a funny card (“You’re my most problematic friend”) and a $50 gift certificate from Pegasus.

Bill and I ended up being the first ones at Telegraph Beer Garden. Already, at 1:45pm, it was half-packed in the outside patio area and quite loud. A birthday group sat right behind us, too. Rivals. Bill had made a massive plate of delicious chocolate-chip cookies. I’d eaten half of them, yet the plate was still overflowing. (Bill’s goal seemed to be to get me to 250 pounds before I got back to Lompoc.)

Soon people started arriving. Allison and her son Baz and husband Adam. Our mutual writer-client friend Tom. Etc. I’d placed my remaining copies of The Crew on one of the linked wooden outside tables. (Next to the cookies.) Before long Allison and I were jesting with each other and she was smiling like a demonic queen. The voices rose against the other white noise of the outside chattering groups and intermingled with the music playing in the background, at that moment Bob Dylan’s Like a Rolling Stone.

Allison loved all her gifts—which included a red pair of undies not for her but for Adam—and a great time was had by all. Several of her writer friends snatched copies of my novel, including a journalist working on a book who’d once written regularly for The New York Times. I fielded questions about the book from the gaggle of writers around me as we all weaved and bobbed and laughed, moving from one conversation to another seamlessly.

Bill got tired and overstimulated due to the bar-ishness and the noise. I didn’t blame him. I felt a little similar. I told him to go ahead and take off and I’d figure out a way home later.

Hours after that, after everyone left except for a half-dozen of us—amazingly no one drunk—Bill invited us all back to his place for lasagna. He’d made two gigantic plates of it the days prior. So we took separate cars back—our mutual writer-friend took me in his red Prius (The Red Cock?)—and had dinner with Bill. There’s more to the story here but I’ll spare you the gritty details. Eventually everyone left except for our mutual writer-client friend, Bill and me. The three of us chatted with espresso, tea and ice cream until later in the eve—our friend telling us about his fascinating 17^th century novel-in-progress—and then he left. Bill and I were exhausted.

*

On April 15^th—Tax Day, and Allison’s actual birthday—I chilled out at Bill’s house, prepping for my two-night backpacking trip in Point Reyes an hour north of the city. I’d done this trip several times in the past but it’s been years. I’d quickly thrown all the necessities into my pack at home but hadn’t organized any of it. Sitting on the sun-drenched balcony of Bill’s house as he worked, I now organized it all. All my life—since my father first took me circa 1993/94, at age 10/11—I’ve been an avid backpacker. There’s nothing like leaving everything behind, losing cell service (my favorite) and doing physical work deep in nature. It’s a total [spiritual] recharge. It settles my soul. Nothing else does this except writing. I need both. (Writing and nature.)

It was a beautiful drive up along Highway 101 and Highway 1 and Lucas Valley Road along the Nicassio Reservoir. When I got to the Bear Valley Trailhead parking lot, in Point Reyes, after a nice walk around “downtown” (Shoreline Ave), I noticed all the people around me, also preparing to go out. This frustrated me. I’d figured since it was mid-April and just after rain I’d be fine.

I headed out. Soon I lost all sight of anyone because I took a right on Mount Wittenberg Trail, which was two miles of steep uphill. (Best way to lose groups.) It was a gorgeous trek, crossing six miles of green valley, lush verdant rolling hills, brown craggy mountains, thick jungle, knee-high grass, and soon the shimmering, ghostly blue Pacific Ocean. It felt like Big Sur, which I’d originally planned to go to (Highway 1 from the north predictably got washed-out). Memories of previous trips here washed through me. Though I passed several groups resting along the way, I was alone almost all of the time. I walked down to the ocean and sat in the sun, smiling at the crashing bejeweled waves. I love that sound.

And yet, my OCD had also been attacking me badly for the past week. Too many unknowns: We haven’t landed yet on a financial advisor; we decided to sell my house in the Bay Area (El Cerrito); family complications; incredible work-strain for Britney; the process of going to Spain; home repairs; money; etc. The OCD was ruthless but not totally severe. I’d been through much worse. It was the usual suspects, the same old thoughts as always; the irrational, delusional fears, repeating and recycling through my mind over and over again, unceasing. The crazy aspect was trying to control the thoughts, in thinking that if I just saw the thoughts in this extremely detailed, precise way I’d somehow, finally “resolve” them. But that was the sickness of the OCD: It wants 100% certainty in life, which is of course impossible. Because nothing is 100% certain in life. Except the precise opposite of life itself: The inevitability of death.

Despite the intrusive, repeating thoughts I still experienced great joy in the wilderness. For the first time in a long while I hadn’t brought a tent, only a good REI sleeping bag, long-johns, a sweater and a thick REI jacket. I slept in my bag which was on a lightweight Therma-rest pad.

*

I awoke the following morning at first light in dead, still silence, soon hearing the early waves crashing down on shore fifty yards west. Due to condensation, my bag, jacket and everything else around me were fairly wet. I jumped up and tied my boots on and threw my jacket around me. Soon I was sipping tea and writing.

The hike that day was more of the same, this time right along the coast above the cliffs, rolling green fields and hills to my left (east). I passed a few big groups but they were resting so I passed them quickly and notched up my speed. They never caught up to me. As I struggled with the OCD, and as I simultaneously absorbed the organic, natural beauty all around me, and as I soaked up the bright hot sun, I thought yearningly of Britney. I missed my wife badly. I mean badly. Usually I did fine when alone in the woods in the backcountry. It had always been a point of pride to exist in solitude, to be alone and in nature for a few days, doing my own thing, tapping my rich inner life, imagining myself as Kerouac or Chris McCandless or something like that. In the end I was always of course simply my weird self.

But now, I thought of my life with Britney, my wife and best friend. I wanted to share this backpacking experience with her, wanted her to see what I saw, and I wanted to comfort her work-wounds, and to dialogue with her about what I was thinking and feeling, and what she was thinking and feeling. From the very beginning—our very first date—we’d connected on such a level that we understood one another intrinsically, without speaking.

Yet we also cherished the process of talking. It bonded us even more. Her family had often jokingly called her “Question” because, from childhood, she’d always constantly asked family members incessant questions. True, this could be draining sometimes, even for me, but the bigger truth was that I longed for her questions. I understood myself better in relation to her. We were a team, a duopoly just like my parents had been before my dad died. We had that true inner ability to connect to the deeper core thing two humans locate only through genuine love.

*

After a few hours I reached Glen Camp, my final night. I dropped my gear at camp #7 and rested on the picnic table. Soon I was sipping tea and eating freeze-dried Fettucine Alfredo. (Delicious.) A huge tree lurked above the table. There were others around but not many and it was quiet. Perhaps 5/12 camps were taken. I rested on my pad, shirtless, on the table, and then I wrote in my journal for a while. After that I hiked without my pack—with only a bottle of water—on an uphill trail big enough for a ranger’s truck, up a high steep trail for about two miles. I saw not one single human. Total, religious silence. Bars of lowering sunlight melted like butter against my reddening skin, the shafts of light shooting between the gaps in the thick tall trees up on the western mountains.

At last I turned around and slowly tromped back. I loved the silence, and I loved being alone this time, even if the absence of Britney did still beat a sharp drum against my heart. Down, down down, back to camp. It was close to dusk.

I ate my second freeze-dried meal—pad Thai with peanut butter and nuts—and then set my bag on the pad on the hard moist dirt near the table. I got in and closed my eyes. But a few minutes later I heard some movement in the brush nearby and then felt—to my horror—some little creepy-crawly whisk across my bag against my torso. I got up, dusted my bag off, and decided to sleep on top of the picnic table. So I moved my pad and bag there and got in.

It was a restless, tossing-and-turning sleep. The moon was out and bright. Some bird or animal unknown in the deep wild land screeched with a yowl that sounded like a ten-year-old boy violently, angrily vomiting. The sound went on and off for hours. Twice I got up to pee. It wasn’t too cold; it felt warmer than the previous night. I was so ready for home and civilization and Britney that I could taste it. I couldn’t wait for morning.

Finally I fell asleep. I woke up again at first light. My iPhone had died. Good. All was quiet. I drank a cup of tea while gathering all my gear. Soon I was hiking back towards Bear Valley Trail. One-point-five miles to the four-way trail split and then Bear Valley Trail 3.1 miles in deep cold shade. Some military or ranger recruits ran past me at one point, then turned and ran by me again. For some reason I thought of the movie An Officer and a Gentleman.

Finally, I escaped the cold tunnel of early morning tree shade. The landscape opened up. Green everywhere. The sun burst open warmly upon my skin. Men on horses clucked by slowly. I passed the trail turnoff for Mount Wittenberg. Full circle. I’d lived in a totally alternative universe for two days and nights. I came out into the parking lot. Found The White Penis. Took off all my wet, filthy clothes—I smelled like death—and changed into fresh ones. Charged my phone. Used the bathroom in the lot. Drove to town. Got tea and bakeries.

I headed the 5.5 hours home; 880 south to 101 south. I couldn’t wait to see Britney, to see the animals, to get back to promoting my novel, to get back to love and warmth and safety. It all felt alien and nostalgic and far away somehow. I listened to more Mailer. Listened twice again to Mayer’s Born and Raised.

I felt alive. I felt rejuvenated. Replenished. True.

I felt real.