Of San Diego, California
At the end of my first trip to California, including Disneyland, Sea World, and the San Diego Zoo, I was asked which my favorite was. “The potato bug.” I replied. I had found my creepy crawly little friend on the front porch. I was six. My parents were embarrassed.
Besides the potato bug, I also remember Dumbo. I had to ride Dumbo. We waited for a LONG time. Even longer for a little kid. But flying was worth it. I was 13 on my next visit to California, and Dumbo wasn’t my priority: finding the perfect hat was. I found it next to the tea cups at the “Mad Hatter.” I proudly wore it to Tijuana, where we hit a dog and mom decided we should never go there again.
California was an open door to me and my family because of some wonderful people living there: my aunt and uncle who wanted an active part in our lives. Talk about genetic jackpot. My Aunt had us back when I was 15, learning proper etiquette and seeing the Romanov Russian jewels. My sister and I pretended to be the lost princess Anastasia. What girl has not fallen in love with that story? My Uncle took us sailing, which didn’t blow any fairytale thoughts out of our heads. We had found our magic place: California.
Stepping into California has always been like going into another world. Palm trees greet you from the airport, and my Uncle jokingly complains of “another day in paradise.” A world of culture, of refinement. Seeing my first live play. Meeting the children from Narnia after opening night of the “The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe,” held at a gala no less beautiful than a world you could enter through a closet.
After a couple weeks of minding manners and learning the finer things of life, my uncle offered to take us out to eat anywhere. Unlimited finances and transportation. We voted for the Taco Bell at the bottom of the hill. For someone who has never eaten a burrito with his hands, my uncle unflinchingly tasted this fast food delicacy with a spork.
After surviving my sister and me, it was time for my little brother to come to California. No one will ever forget the elaborate train set that my uncle set up, and the six-year-old boy who managed not to break it, save a few heart stopping moments my mother had.
California holds my first glimpse of the ocean: magic I hope never to lose. I cannot wrap my mind around it. The idea is too big. Never ending water until up comes a piece of land covered with life meeting the crisp sky. Try marching inside the ocean: some people call it a cruise. I call it where you dress up for dinner, get ice cream 24 hours a day, and have a chocolate statue of Liberty at the midnight buffet. Standing at the bow of the ship, the wind fighting me back, watching the sun dance on the waves, up and down, and up and down…forget seasickness; it was hypnotic magic.
If there was anything else that California could offer, it could only be a road trip, along the coast from San Diego to San Francisco. That happened in 2008. I didn’t lose my heart there, only a purse. And it wasn’t my purse, it was my aunt’s. 20 minutes after leaving it on a street car, we discovered it missing. My uncle called the bus systems while hauling a cab. Our disoriented cab driver drove us around the night lights of San Fran, while my uncle flagged down three number 30 buses, the third one telling us that it had been turned in--the purse was at the bus station.
The bus station lost and found was closed, but when we turned the corner, the guy unlocked the door, and a sweet voice called out "oh, she's here?" They had stayed open long enough for us to arrive. The purse was there, intact. Of all the stories you hear of big cities and dark nights—honest people remain. Maybe we met them all that night, or maybe it is just the wrong stories that get told.
Tomorrow I am going back to the Magic Kingdom, the happiest place on earth. But in reality, I am already there. “There is no surprise more magical than the surprise of being loved: it is God’s finger on man’s shoulder.” –Charles Morgan