Life, in Paradise
Took S. up to San Francisco to an event she's working. I also took the dogs and decided to visit the old neighborhood before heading back. After cutting through a particularly lovely section of the Tenderloin, I went down Polk to see if the neighborhood had changed any. Not much; same restaurants and shops, mostly, same traffic, same double-parked cars all over. Went for a walk around the circle at Fort Mason. I would have walked up to our old place, but C. decided he'd had enough of this little nostalgia trip and so we headed back.

Do I miss the city? Yes, but not enough to want to return. On the way back, I got off I-280 at the Pacifica exit and took Highway 1 home. Now 280 may be the "world's most beautiful freeway" (a title some find oxymoronic, although I'm partial to the sight of the low clouds creeping over the mountains and down the hillside by the reservoirs), but it doesn't compare to the glories of a trip down the coast road. Steep, wave-drenched cliffs alternate with long stretches of golden beach. It's still spring on this (the ocean) side because the hillsides are still green and the flowers are still in bloom; it's gone to gold and straw on the other side already.

Stopped at the Whale City Bakery in Davenport. Some guy was playing what looked like an electric mandolin, and playing it very well. There was hardly anyone there - the staff, me, two guys at a table, and some guy at the counter - but we were mesmerized. When he took a short break between tunes, there were several heartbeats of complete silence and then everyone applauded and cheered wildly.

And that's why I don't miss the city. These little moments of accidental serendipity seem to happen all the time in Santa Cruz. They hardly ever did in the city, because almost everything required so much planning and effort to make happen that spontaneity got squeezed right out. Nothing ever feels forced or rushed here. I mean, what can you say about a place where most everyone obeys the 25 MPH speed limits?