The two-toned man returns

I stopped for coffee at the usual place in Florence.  It was a gorgeous day all along the coast.  People were out and about.  So many people that all the tables in the shade were taken.  I was concerned that I would not be able to handle the direct sun.  Yes, all of the blazing 68 degree sun by the water!

I had no choice but to sit in the open with the sun's rays streaming on me as I sipped the coffee that was far tastier than the Starbucks one I had at Redding.  The lemon bar was a wonderful accompaniment.  No coffee without a snack. Ever. A few months ago, a colleague invited me to have coffee with him while we talked.  I took a few cookies with me.  "You are so European" he remarked.  "They always eat something with coffee, not unlike us Americans."

While drinking coffee, I recalled the Neyveli heat of the childhood years.  The heat and dust of Pattamadai during the summer holidays.  The Madras heat later on.  The Calcutta swelter.  After all those years of experiencing the sun at its deadliest intensity, I now am unable to handle a few minutes of even the 68 degree sunny warmth.

Fortunately, I was done with the lemon bar and the coffee just as I started feeling the wetness of the sweat in my balding head.  I headed to the car, and was off on the final leg of the long road trip.

A few minutes after reaching home, I stepped out to check the mail.  "You are back" yelled out the neighbors from their porch.

As I started walking towards them, I heard her say, "you look tanned."

"Oh, can you tell?  I was born tanned" I joked.

"You do.  And stop making us jealous" she said.

The more I spend time outdoors, and the more I am out and about on sunny days, the more I get tanned. But then, every once in a while, a shirt with the top button off, or a tshirt that has a v-neck reveals a skin that is different.  Which is what happened a few days before I set off on the road trip.  Another neighbor walked over to say hello and noticed the un-tanned skin.  "Sriram, you need to work on your tan" he joked.  The friend immediately chimed in with "yes, he is two-toned."

I hope that I will continue to be two-toned for many more years, until that time comes.  Because, if I start losing my tan, it will mean that I am not out and about, which can only be because of ill-health.  I am already looking forward to more tanning experiences of life, including traveling to, and in, wherever the daughter lives.

Asti अस्ति

I knew I had no choice but to exit and take a look when I read the name of the community: Asti.

What's the big deal about "Asti," you are wondering, right? If you guessed it sounds Italian, you are absolutely right.  But, if you thought that I exited because of that Italian connection, you are dead wrong ;)

My mind played with how the word "asti" sounded and I was reminded of the Sanskrit classes decades back in the old country.  अस्ति means "to be."  It is.  It exists.  Asti.

If only the teachers and the system back then had provided us with a wonderful exposure to the humanities--and to languages, in particular.  Whether it was Sanskrit or Tamil or English or Hindi, the teachers did not teach us how to appreciate the beauty of the language.  Even worse, they failed to convey the rich history that comes with any language.

Instead, all they drilled into us was about learning the mechanics of whatever language they wanted us to learn.  Now, looking back, all I can do is smile at how ironical it was that one of the essays that we read for the English class was Winston Churchill's piece on his learning Latin as a schoolboy.  it is a long tradition of making languages unappealing to students!

Thus, Asti as अस्ति in my mind was why I decided to exit.  I knew there was a story waiting for me.

But then, I suppose stories are never waiting for any of us.  It is up to us to tell stories.  A story is in the eye of the beholder.  Let me tell you what story I saw there.

Asti is named for the Italian town for a reason--this is in California's wine country.  There are vineyards everywhere, and it should surprise nobody that a small community here is named after a place in Italy.  Off the exit ramp, I turned right, and drove slowly admiring the scenery.  A cop car passed me. Otherwise nothing.  It did not seem like there was any story.

I turned around.  I drove past the exit.  There was my story.

I was tempted to park, get down, and take a few photographs.  But, what if I upset them in the process?  Did I really want to mess around with people walking around spraying chemicals that are apparently so powerful that they have to wear Ebola-fighting outfits?  I am, after all, a wuss.  I reached out for my camera, which was lying on the passenger seat, and clicked without even lowering the window.  What they didn't know won't bother them, right?

We seem to do bizarre things in the name of progress, like using chemicals that are so powerful that we need to protect ourselves from them.  While wrapped up  in protective suits, we spray those chemicals on produce that we eventually consume!  We certainly are fucked up. I wonder how I might say "fucked up" in Sanskrit; I wish Pattabhiraman "sir" had taught me that back in the old country! ;)

Driving fast by the graveyard in California

Those were some brutal scenes that I was a witness to.  The dead lay in rows after rows.  Black and dark brown.

Yet, I did not stop to take photos.  I continued to drive in the slow lane as vehicles sped past me as they always do.

The dead, you see, were almond trees.  In California's San Joaquin Valley.

Like in this photograph from the Washington Post:

Usually when I near Coalinga, I prepare myself for the stink from the mega-dairies.  And I was prepared for that.  Acres of dead almond trees was new.  California's drought has dramatically altered its landscape already.  Yet, life goes on in California and elsewhere.

What a contrast to conditions in the old country!

Back when we were kids, watching a movie meant sitting through a government propaganda documentary as well.  Invariably, those documentaries--News Reels, they were called--were about hardships that farmers faced.  Almost always, they seemed to be about Bihar where if it was not floods it was a drought!

Even now, the prospect of a serious monsoon failure in South Asia is a nightmarish scenario--for the countries there and for the rest of the world too.  Because, unlike in California, half the population relies on agriculture for their existence.  Their livelihoods are dependent on a prosperous agriculture sector.  And unlike almonds, which are luxuries, rice and wheat are staples that sustain the hundreds of millions.

The fact that nobody really worries about California's drought is by itself a measure of the affluence in this country.  Of course, almond trees are down.  Lawns are brown.  But, life is otherwise unchanged.  The only noticeable difference is this: water is no longer served at restaurants.  Water is served only if the diner requests it.  To paraphrase Harry Truman's mother who reportedly told him "if that's your biggest problem, Harry, consider yourself lucky," here in the land of affluence if water by request is the biggest problem in California, well, we are lucky beyond our wildest imaginations!

Watch out for the tree!

Way back, in the social studies class in the old country, the textbook had a photograph of a car driving through a huge tree in California.  I bet I am not the only one from my class, from my school, who thought it would be cool to look at the tree in real life.

There are plenty of things we read about, hear about, that pique our curiosity.  But, not always are we able to follow-up on everything.  It is perhaps a good thing that we forget--else, our lives will be filled with disappointment after disappointment.

I never forgot about this tree.  When I came to California decades ago, I learnt that the drive through tree was in Yosemite, but that the tree fell years ago.  But that there were private ones.

Years went by.  I left California.

You see, many things in life require us to make them happen.  Rarely do they automatically happen. This time, on the way back from California, I knew was going to make it to to a drive-through tree.  I knew it because I was going to take the coastal route.

Sure enough, there were signs.  I exited.

"Is it a busy day?" I asked the woman at the counter as I handed her five dollars for the entrance fee.

A busy day it was.

The drive through the tree itself is what America is about.  An entrepreneurial mind cooks up an idea and then sells it.  We suckers fall for it, and give those creative minds our wallets.  "Build a better mousetrap, and the world will beat a path to your door" they say; we surely do drive the path to that doorway hollowed out in a tree.

And then there it was.

Soon that excitement was over, and I continued on.

I drove through the Avenue of the Giants.  I could begin to understand why Rockefeller donated the money to save the trees after his visit a century ago.  I stopped every few minutes to take it all in.

When I was parked at one place, I thought my vehicle deserved a thanks as well, inanimate it might be.  A 140-horse chariot that did not exist when I was a kid who read about the drive-through tree in a faraway place called California.

Life is not in the rear-view mirror

It was a much cooler drive over the Siskiyous this time around.  Well, cooler is all relative, I suppose.  But, the ten degree differential compared to the experiences past made all the difference.

However, that was over the mountain stretch.  The flatland of the valley on the southern side was blisteringly hot.

I pulled into a Starbucks at Redding for my caffeine fix.  And, to also give the car a much needed break.  I parked it under a shade that covered my car as much as any outfit covers Kim Kardashian ;)

"It is 99 degrees here in Redding" I texted from within the cool confines of the coffee house, while cursing about the quality of coffee and the cookie.  Cursing in my mind, of course.  There was no way I was going to incur the wrath of the Starbucks-addicts by loudly expressing my dissatisfaction.

When I entered the warm car, there was something amiss.  "What is this dangling?" was my thought before I realized that it was the rear-view mirror hanging.

The older I get, the easier I panic, and the dangling rear-view mirror alarmed me.  I propped it over the passenger side visor.

I got back on the freeway.  With no rear-view mirror, I had to get back to the old lesson from the days when I began to drive in the US--to look over the shoulder before changing lanes.  The rear-view mirror now served only one purpose: to report the temperature outside!

As I continued to drive along, I wondered if not having the rear-view mirror could serve as a metaphor for life itself.  Often, too often, most of us end up looking at the events that happened.  We constantly look at the rear-view mirrors of our lives.  When, in reality, the direction that we go is forward, which is where our attention ought to be.

After a while, I really did not miss the mirror.  Through the crazy Los Angeles traffic, I changed lanes after looking over my shoulders.  I even watched out for crazy drivers by scanning the side view mirrors.

But, I knew that I had to get it fixed.  I narrated the event to my daughter.  The competent woman she is, within minutes she located a shop only a couple of minutes away.  "My father will be there soon" she told them.

I drove the mile to the shop.  A strongly built guy a few years older than me walked up.  His arms had tattoos.  He had a pleasant and welcoming smile.

"My daughter called about the rear-view mirror ..."

"Oh yeah, no problems.  I can get you going."

"I have no idea what happened.  I stopped for coffee in Redding ... I suppose the 99 degree heat was too much."  But, in my mind, I was thinking about the summers when I have driven to Los Angeles in 100-plus degree heat.  Once it was a 108 in the San Fernando Valley.

"These things are notorious ... the glue melts in the heat all the time" he reassured me as he started working on it.

"Did you find the place?" asked the text from the daughter.  My life is overflowing with people caring for me.

Two minutes and he was done.  "Make sure you don't move the mirror for at least ten minutes.  Otherwise, you are all set."

I was relieved and happy that it was done.  So much so that I would have given him a tight hug.  The older I get, the more appreciative I am of people who help me.  Even if for a fee.  "I owe you something" I told him.

"Nothing at all" he said with a smile.

I was all the more ready to hug that tattooed man.

"Thank you so much" I told him as I got into the vehicle.

I reached the daughter's home without looking at the rear-view mirror.

"What a way to fuck up!"

Ukiah.

I decided to exit and check out the town.  Not only because of the small town atmosphere where I wanted to get myself a cup of coffee.  There was more.  I wanted to get an idea of why this part of the world was once home to the notorious Jim Jones.

I have hazy recollections of the news report of the cult-suicide in The Hindu, back when I was a teenager curious to understand the world.  I am pretty sure that it was thanks to that cult and the suicide that I came to know about two things: Kool-Aid and Guyana.  Years later, I had a classmate in graduate school who was from Guyana--she was of Indian descent, and I always found it interesting when she introduced herself as an East Indian.  Little did I know about the history behind that usage!

I parked across the courthouse along the main street.  Perhaps because of the background curiosity about Jim Jones, I worried that it was a bad idea.  But, I ventured.  When I saw a building with an interesting cupola, I got excited about the stories that I might discover for myself.  I clicked.

A marker on the side noted that the building is from 1889.  Unlike the long history of the old country, here even a building from 1889 has historic value.  After walking a couple of blocks, I decided to drive around.  Which is when all my troubles began.

A couple of blocks away, a driver reversing the car out of the angled parking space on the street almost rammed into my vehicle.  Phew!

Another couple of blocks later, I came to a stop at the intersection, and then proceeded along.  I heard somebody yelling.  "Hey, asshole!"  Really?  Me an asshole? I merely blog about them ;)

I noticed a man on a bicycle furiously pedaling behind me and yelling at the same time.  I wondered whether I should flee or stop to listen to him.  Stupid me I chose the latter.

I lowered the window.

"You didn't stop at the stop sign, asshole.  You could have hit me or somebody."  He seemed about a decade older than me.

I did stop.  There was another vehicle that came to a stop at the intersection 90 degrees to my right.  I then slowly entered the intersection.  My guess is that this cyclist was hidden from my view by the larger vehicle.

But, I didn't bother explaining all these to him. "Sorry" is all I said as I released my foot off the brake pedal.

"What a way to fuck up" was his parting comment.

Two incidents within a couple of blocks was enough for me.  I decided to leave town before anything really ugly happened.

Maybe Jim Jones' crazy spirit is alive and well in Ukiah!  Make sure you don't drink the Kool-Aid there ;)

This land is my land, this land is your land

Every road trip--heck, even while commuting to campus--I wonder with awe how this country became so rich, whereas the old country continues to struggle along even though it was once the richest country on the planet.

A long road trip gives me plenty of time for such deep thoughts ;)  A man, a car, the road, and his solitude.  This hermit loves it!

Only a few weeks ago, my blog-debate-partner went on his own road trip in the old country.  He wrote about crossing the mighty Brahmaputra river.  The logistics involved in that experience on the other side of the world easily demonstrates the immense material affluence here.

After paying a five-dollar toll for the privilege of using one of my favorite bridges, I exited on the other side to contemplate.

The road trip confirmed, yet again, that this is a phenomenally rich country; a land paved with the metaphorical gold.  Perhaps it is because I am an immigrant here that I appreciate this much more than the typical native-born American does?

I stood for a while looking at the San Rafael Bridge and thinking about life.  I thought about the affluence that came via a huge human toll that was paid for by Native Americans, African-Americans, Chinese-Americans, and more.  I thought about the ease of my daily life now that was made possible by the pioneers of generations past.  I owe them all.  I owe them big time.

Later, at the motel, when I stepped out to get some fresh salty air, I struck up a conversation with an older gentleman with a well weathered appearance.  "My wife and I are on a road trip from Tennessee" he said with a drawl and an accent that I thought had disappeared from this country.  I struggled to get some of his words.  "I've already seen people my age die or not able to move around, and I wanted to get a look of this country while I can" he added.

We talked some more about the places he has seen and I have been to.  "There is one part of the country I don't care for" I told him.  I know a honest man when I see one, and I knew I could talk frankly with him.  "The desert of Nevada."

He agreed.  "I don't get Arizona and New Mexico either" he said.

"I too don't care for that high desert."

But, I am glad that even that land is my land.

The hermit pokes his head outside the ashram

"Your summer road trip to visit with me has become an annual tradition" the daughter remarked.

It has.  A wonderful tradition it has indeed become.

Every year I make two trips in particular: one to spend some time with the daughter, and another to spend some time with the parents.  I suppose I am the bridge across the generations.  A link in a chain that goes way back.

The daughter's remark, accidental it might be, reveals a lot about this antisocial hermit--he spends time and precious money to stay connected with his people.  Unlike with my intellectual gobbledygook, here I truly practice what I preach!

Technological tools--phone calls, Skype, emails, Facebook--are all mere proxies that simply cannot compare with the real thing of being together at the same place and time and sharing a meal and stories.  To borrow from a different context,

Because to love or be loved truly is to be able to say, “I have been touched.”

It is easy, far too easy, for most of us to substitute the proxies.  But, then my life is not about my ease--life is more than mere me on this pale blue dot.

I stopped by to break bread with two friends whom I knew almost from when I was fresh off the boat.  One of them wrote in an email after the visit:

Thanks for making the effort to keep in touch with us

People matter.  I am who I am because of the people around me.

"What if next year I am not here, but away in some other place?" the daughter continued.

"I will come see you wherever you are" I replied.

I am sure it was a rhetorical question that she posed,.  I am equally confident that she knew my answer even before I uttered those words.