Gifts

Breakfast at the hotel in Ashland was crowded with so many people traveling for Christmas that a couple asked to sit with us. They were about forty, we guessed, give or take five years. We got to talking: the usual, about why we were there, where we were going, where we were from. We mentioned we were headed to Yuma and other places. We mentioned our car and that we were charging at new-to-us chargers along the way. Well, they were thinking about getting an electric car and had all sorts of questions. And so the conversation went. We had such a happy time with them, chatting. We left the breakfast room feeling warm.

There was heavy fog in Ashland, and we worried about getting on the highway but went ahead, cautiously. As the road rose out of town toward the pass, the fog lifted and the skies cleared. It was below freezing. We noticed what looked like ice on the road, but it didn’t seem to be slippery. Then we saw a highway department truck spraying ice-melt and realized that was what we had seen. It was an easy run over the pass in beautiful weather.

We stopped in Vacaville. There must be a town somewhere, but it appeared to be little more than a bedroom community surrounding huge shopping areas. The highway was busy, with six lanes full of traffic heading west, and six lanes of traffic heading east. The roads beside the highway were busy, with cars queued up at the traffic lights, waiting to enter the shopping, waiting to exit the shopping, cruising the lots looking for parking. Not frantic yet – there was still one more day until Christmas.

We stayed overnight in Fairfield, with Travis Air Force Base next to it. This was familiar territory to me long ago, but of course a lot has changed since then.

Christmas Eve morning we headed over the hills to Vallejo. (Is Christmas Eve morning really a valid term? Isn’t it just the morning of December 24? But Christmas is such a huge, complex holiday these days that it has spilled over into Christmas Eve Day.) I lived in Vallejo fifty years ago, going to a Navy school on Mare Island when my daughter was born. Vallejo has a special place in my heart. We lived on Mariposa Street, I think.

Stopped at another charger, we went into the nearby grocery store, crowded with families of shoppers. The store was amazing, with all sorts of wonders our local Fred Meyer doesn’t carry. Plastic bags of masa dough. Bins piled high with beans. Bags of tamale wraps and others full of dried chilis. Fresh avocados. In the meat section, pork lard ready to be scooped out – how much would you like? And over it all an assortment of piñatas. It all looked so exuberant. I was raised in the midwest, and compared to what I saw here my early family life just seems to have been so very bland.

We continued north and east around the bay, up over the Napa River on the same bridge I rode my first motorcycle on my first day and large raindrops hit the helmet face shield with loud popping noises I thought meant my bike was coming apart.

And then across the beauty and peace of the San Pablo Bay National Wildlife Preserve, to the farms on the other side. We saw miniature horses in one field, sheep in another. Chickens. And soon we were in Petaluma, with more shopping.

Getting off the highway in San Rafael, we were immediately in a neighborhood. One minute we’re among all the cars heading toward San Francisco, passing shopping malls and hills of open grass fields, and the next on a small street bordered by houses and apartments, looking very much like a neighborhood anyone would want to live in.

Wherever we stop we see people whose ancestors came from all parts of the world. I hadn’t realized how much I miss living in this rich variety of humanity.

Tonight we’ll stay in San Rafael, and tomorrow head south. We’ve only been on this trip for three days, but so far it has been full of gifts.