earlier this month lovely and i got retested, and upon getting our results immediately hightailed up the 5 to see my family in the bay. it’s the faster, “less-scenic” straight-shot route, compared to the 1, which slithers up the coastline. californians looooove to gush over the 1, due to the fact that it offers scenic views of the ocean, passes through redwood trees, and crosses quaint towns. if you ever tell them that you’re driving between LA and the bay, they will often perk up, roll their eyes to the back of their skulls, and intoxicatedly gasp, “oooh, are you going to take the 1?
fuck no i’m not taking the 1! is what i want to reply. if you’ve ever watched the first scene from john q you know why. half the commute is one-lane highways hugging the side of the mountain. every 10 minutes you’ll find yourself behind a big rig and have to make the mortal decision to either continue driving at 30 mph while everyone behind you honks, or try to pass it up and risk a head-on collision followed by a firey death plummeting down said beautiful california coastline. as the driver, you’re relegated to keeping your eyes on the road while everyone else in the car is like “omg the sunset is sooooo beautifulllllllll” while leaning over you to try to capture a shitty shot. meanwhile, dare to start your trip late enough in the day and you’re punished by having to navigate the last few hours in the pitch black forest on some ichabod crane shit. nah bruh, fuck the 1.
the 5 is actually gorgeous, especially with fresh eyes after a decade in the east coast and four months in lockdown. the 5 is often described as “boring” because it’s basically just a long stretch of highway marked every half hour by clusters of gas stations and in-n-outs. on it, you encounter big sky and the rural parts that resemble what most of california actually looks like, but that’s often forgotten in the shadows of hollywood and silicon valley. there was a point when i was living in the bay that i regularly drove to LA, and became familiar with cutting through mountains, passing fields of cherry trees, and crossing the sea of cattle. not to say that i’ve learned to love the smell of manure and cowhide baking in the sun that fills the car when i hit that point, but i’ve come to know the route so well that, when the stench started seeping through the vents, i couldn’t help but sigh gleefully: almost home.
now that we’ve been at my parents’ house for two weeks, i’ve learned that every single one of the grown-n-sexy routines that i spent all of quarantine manicuring are a ruse. in LA, i formed a habit of pre-planning gourmet meals for each night, caressing potatoes and thanking the earth while i peeled them, paying mind to dicing onions symmetrically, roasting cauliflower to a perfect brown. now, if mom doesn’t cook, adriel doesn’t eat. more than a few times, i’ve startled myself in the middle of the afternoon with a rumbling belly, rampaged the kitchen, and ended up having chocolate for lunch. are you familiar with egg taco? i’m very familiar with egg taco.
the habit that’s been hit the hardest has been my writing. admittedly, i haven’t been able to take my inner musings as seriously ever since the protests for black lives resurfaced. it hasn’t felt appropriate to, even privately, bemoan creative blocks and loud neighbors as the world has gotten heavier. i spent most of june replacing my writing with reading, learning, planning toward contributing to the whirlwind of causes in need of attention, but i very quickly began feeling all the muscular tensions, mental cloudiness, and existential dimness that ushered me into burnout last year.
visiting my family has offered more time in the day for loving conversations, but also plenty of extra time to fixate on my phone, and more reason to feel that my voice has no place unless its sentiments are anchored to a headline. one of the things i’ve missed in the weeks that i’ve been gone has been living with nico, who meets my moments of frustration or deflation with the question, “what would make you feel most free?” the answer is never “bottle shit up.” the truth is, i feel most free when i write, especially when it’s a healthy balance of writing like our lives depend on it, and fucking around with brain droppings. i must remind myself that what we’re yearning for, fighting for, isn’t just to end oppression but to sustain thriving…to be free to create, free to reflect, and even to be free to take the easy route when we feel like it.