The art of being Californian, it seems, is to cultivate a loose-limbed insouciance while secretly working away like a frantic ant.

--Richard Fortey The Earth: An Intimate History

Saturday, November 15, 2008

And It Feels Like I'm a Long Way From Home

I am a Southern California girl. I have strict living boundaries. I like warm. I like sunshine. I have strict boundaries. I like warm.

Did I mention that I like warm?

Did I mention I have strict boundaries?

Yet somehow I left my beloved San Diego on a weekend where we were promising to have 80 degree, flawless weather and journeyed to the far (okay, okay, not-so-far) north: Mammoth.

I must be crazy. Or just a mom, since I am going to get my son who has been with my mother for the past two weeks.

Oh, another thing about traveling to the not-so-far north: I hate road trips. I hate sitting still. I hate monotony. The movement of the car puts me instantly asleep, and then I wake up with nasty aches from being in a weird, awkward position. I fondly remember the days in our family '65 Impala, lying stretched out in the back . . . not a care in the world.
Stupid seatbelts.

Anyway, to kill the ridiculous hours it takes to get to Mammoth from San Diego (this time issue is totally the fault of the driver . . . if I were driving, we would be there in at least one hour less than it took to get here today. However, if I were driving, I would have also fallen asleep and wrecked the car), I took a few photos.

Consider the following a travel journal of sorts (whose format I have shamelessly plagiarized from those more talented than I):

Do I have enough to read? Will I be able to stay hydrated?

AHHH. This position hurts after an hour too!

Note the accumulation of bug splatters. . .

What kind of scary-assed pets do they have here? I am way way way out of my boundaries.

Notice my correct grammar. . . .

I must be one of the few people who come to Mammoth regularly and don't actually visit the mountain itself. My mom's best friend owns a chalet here and most of my childhood has been spent visiting this amazing area of eastern California (and yes, I did look at a map today and noticed that Mammoth is, indeed, not part of Yosemite. Are you happy?). Though I have few memories of snowboarding or mountain biking on the mountain, the memories I do have are full of friends, family, Thanksgivings, fireworks, festivals, and love. . .
Did I mention love?

Mammoth is a lot like home, but still far far way. It is missing an essential element.

On a side note: my son did not greet me with joyous abandon. Rather, he exclaimed, "Mommy! Oh . . . no. I don't want to go home. I'm going back with Nani."

Ah, the unconditional love of a child. Why did I leave my boundaries again?

No comments:

Post a Comment