California

California has its own gravity. Each time I’m too far for too long I’m pulled back. The mountains, the beaches, the desert, the agriculture; I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to not call it home.

Everyone my age hates my hometown, and at times I do too, but I can’t help but feel like I grew up in the most beautiful place in the world. You get a taste for each season, with none of the unbearable bits. You’re surrounded by lush green and bright flowers through June, and then the hills turn golden. Creeks tuck themselves away in every corner of the valley; fun for finding tadpoles and getting my little hands slimy trying to catch them. Crunchy leaves decorate the plaza in the fall, and twinkle lights take their place in the trees through the winter.

Sonoma has a certain type of beauty, and living in the PNW now I appreciate it even more. The beauty of the PNW is grand. Tall trees and blankets of fog coat tall tall mountains. It all feels new and fresh. The nature is so boundless that even Seattle feels small against the vast bodies of water surrounding it. The water’s everywhere; to the west, to the south, coming from above. Looking out from my apartment I can see forever and ever into the distance on a clear day. It’s incredible. It’s isolating.

Sonoma’s beauty is more subdued, nestled with the red newts in the wet leaves, and the roly polies in the grass by the bike path. Its beauty is smaller and feels ancient and mythical. I would press my palm into the big tree at my elementary school and feel connected to something so much larger than myself. The nature there welcomes you, invites you in. Even the scary path in my backyard was comforting in a way.

Perhaps my view is rose tainted with nostalgia, and perhaps it’s just like any other small town, but I can’t help but feel like there’s something remarkable happening here. The culture is not always my favorite, but there’s also a love and a sense of community here that I think is hard to come by.

A little west of town you reach Petaluma, beach access with no beach problems. Lots of cows, lots of hills, incredibly temperate. The perfect picture of small town America, and home to my favorite hair salon.

Inching further out into the coast are some of the most fascinating tide pools and the most low key beaches I’ve ever encountered. Too chilly and too hilly for the out of towners who would rather a sunny, easily accessible beach adventure, but perfect for me and my dad. A pink and white striped taffy shop tucked on a cliffside where we indulge ourselves.

As you travel south down the coast, past the city, you reach what is, to me, peak California coast: the stretch between Pacifica and Santa Barbara. 70’s Beach Boys surf culture meets 2000’s tourist tacky, and not much has been renovated in the last 30 years. Bright, colorful buildings that would look out of place anywhere else line the beaches, home to over priced swimsuit boutiques, ice cream shops, and arcades. The stores are filled with floaties and boogie boards and themed shot glasses. Old guys in old cars blast the same music they did when they moved there 40 years ago. It all feels frozen in time.

Now, I hate LA. Anyone who knows me knows this. But even I can’t deny that there’s something special in the air down there. The glitz and glam of Hollywood stands in stark contrast to the poverty that lines the streets, but there’s a sort of whimsy to it all that leaves you feeling like anything is possible in the land of $20 smoothies.

Up to the far northeast from here, close to where we started, is Truckee, the most magical place in the state. Cool, blue water, tall trees, clear skies, snow capped mountains. Summer in Truckee is the perfect balance between the intimate beauty of Sonoma and the grandness of the Pacific Northwest.

From the pier of my grandparent’s cabin, if you look hard enough, you can see the crawdads crawling around on the bottom of the lake, biding their time before becoming someone’s (probably our) dinner. You can see the trout swimming by, and the aquatic plants swaying in the wake of the speedboats flying by, water skier in tow. You can watch as the sun sets, perfectly tucking itself in between two mountains; the sky always turns pink. Cheese from home and those butterfly crackers sit precariously on a plate on a rickety bench, next to mother’s equally precariously placed glass of wine. The air smells like pine trees, and so do your clothes. There’s dirt on your shins from the walk down from the house, or perhaps from the hike from earlier. You dip your feet into the cool, cool water, and all is well.