Nostalgic Indulgence, a.k.a. I miss Santa Cruz

Upon a recent declaration of my desire to visit Santa Cruz, it was brought to my attention that I, in fact, possess almost no friends there anymore. Everyone, just like myself, has moved away and moved on. This makes many people wonder at my incessant desire to traverse HWY 17 and return to the home of the so-called best years of my life. (I suppose it would be worth noting that, thus far, they really were the best years of my life.) I realize now that I have always been attached to the town itself, possibly even feeling more at home there than I have ever felt anywhere else. I don't know if I could say exactly why, but I can say that I haven't found any San Francisco equivalents for most of the things that I miss. Perhaps this is another manifestation of an early twenty-something reaching out for a last grasp on their fading youth, or what have you, but regardless of my subconscious motivations, I felt it necessary to pause and consider these "things." Some examples:

Its Beach after 5pm: Now, it may sound odd to specify the time of day at which this beach becomes a worthwhile destination, but in all honesty, Santa Cruz is filled with beaches. I lived there for 4 years and I certainly didn't make it to every beach. Some are better then others. Its Beach is really only average, until after 5pm.... when they allow DOGS. The combination of the surfers hitting Steamers Lane around the bluff of Lighthouse Point and the throngs of free-wheeling dogs is unbeatable. I used to head to Alex's house in the evening after class and ride my bike down West Cliff, past the Boardwalk, the Wharf, and Steamers Lane (the official destination of all tourists looking to spot some surfers) and stop at little Its Beach where I would climb the steep steps down to the sand and approach random strangers with the request to cavort with their dogs. I would then proceed to romp until sunset, when I would bike back to cook vegan pancakes for dinner. And if you are currently thinking that your life is not as good as mine was back then, I have to admit, you are probably right.



Caffe Pergolessi's: Until I went to college, I did not drink coffee. Perhaps I didn't think it necessary until I was regularly assigned several hundred pages of reading a week? Regardless of the reason, I have never found a coffee shop that I like better. There I would sit, occasionally long enough to warrant my eating all three meals at the same table, reading and writing and studying to the sound of everything from Paul Wall to Andrew WK to Broken Social Scene. One might say it possessed a hipster quotient equivalent to that of Ritual, but a touch more genuine and far less pretentious. Never did I feel inferior to the guy serving me my coffee because I had opted for transportation in any form other than a fixed gear bike. And it was very old and somewhat scrubby. Not in a fear-for-your-health kind of way, but in a homey way: rattling windows that dropped closed at random, slanted floors, chipped molding, etc. Not to mention the graffiti that coated the metal walls (yes.... metal walls) of the frighteningly minuscule bathroom, which provided an source of endless entertainment. Perhaps my favorite of the four years: "Oedipus Rex was a mother fucker." How's that for clever? This sauciness - vulgar with an academic bent - was rather definitive of the place itself.

The Red Room & The Poet and the Patriot: My bars, and how I miss them so. One being, quite obviously true to its name, entirely red on the inside (not in a seizure-inducing way), and the other being filled with DART BOARDS and pints, these were my night-out destinations. Watching people ash their cigarettes into the candle holders underneath the enormous "SMOKING PROHIBITED" sign at the Red Room was always endearing; their own personal middle finger to the law, one might say. And although it seemed par for the course at the time, the drink prices - $3.75 for a well Gin n Tonic, a price now virtually non-existent in SF, even at Happy Hour - make me positively nostalgic. Hot rockabilly bartenders rounded out the general greatness. Off at The Poet, I learned to truly drink beer, throw a dart properly from the elbow (Not your shoulder, people! And not your wrist, either!), and humiliate grown men with my Scrabble prowess. My love for Snakebites and Cricket were both born here: two loves which, though recently tempered, have not yet died.

Frisbee: This is an activity in which I no longer partake. This is especially sad because it is certainly available in parts of San Francisco, but.... unless it's on the campus East Field or at Davenport Landing, it just isn't the same. The East Field was built along the edge of a steep hill, so that you could gaze straight off the sharp drop in the visual distance at the Pacific Ocean. This view extended all the way to the Monterey Peninsula. This meant you frequently enjoyed the sensation of running straight towards a cliff, thus risking your life to catch a flying disc of plastic. Really makes you feel alive. Mind you, my housemates and I played a rather different form of frisbee than most people, or so I've been told. It was a little more like tossing a football in the sense that the phrase "go out for a long one" was heard frequently. Generally, one of us would toss the frisbee as hard and far as possible in the opposite direction of whichever friend was the intended recipient. Said friend then had to access their every molecule of athletic resource and sprint after said frisbee. Fun times had by all! Of course, completely unnecessary flying leaps to complete a catch will always earn you extra points... or at least more frisbee street cred.




The High House: My house of three years, 415 High Street, was located at the corner of Storey Street, where some very creative collegiate cretins long ago changed the "R" to an "N." Thus marking the intersection of High and Stoney. Oh boy, stoner humor! This touching landmark aside, my house was the shit. Not to make you feel bad about your current living situation, but I doubt it comes close. The High House really consisted of two houses, one big and one small. The small house was originally intended as a maids' quarters, a point which those folks living in the larger house rarely allowed us to forget. For most of my 3 years there, the small house contained 4 girls, while the larger house contained about 10 or 11 folks, mostly male with a few token females. Connecting the two houses was a lovely, sprawling porch featuring an orange tree, lounge chairs, hammocks, a barbecue, and a hot tub. The large house also featured an easily accessible roof on multiple levels (it was of the three-story variety), which provided an ideal view whilst lying on towels contracting skin cancer and becoming slowly inebriated. The lovely little garden in back, possessing aloe plants that came quite in handy when treating sunburns contracted on the roof above, and the front lawn, which came quite in handy for Slip n Slide, plastic flamingos, and yard sales, further endeared the house to me. One can see why I remained stagnant regarding housing. I was ballin.

Trees: Yeah, in Santa Cruz, they were everywhere. In San Francisco, they're almost nowhere. If you've ever seen a tree in your life and require any further explanation as to why I might miss seeing them around with great frequency, then you are either dead or have no soul.



Now, let's go on a day trip. I've got a car. We can split gas. C'mon.

The End.