Destination Home

The journey, when that's not what it's about.

“Goodbye, LA,” I say. “Goodbye to all that,” I say, if I’m in a Didion mood. Like everyone born in Sacramento, I must point out Joan was too. As an Angeleno, I must emphasize Joan was also one of us. I pack my car with just enough bags that my parents will ask how long exactly I’m planning on staying. I leave home a little later than planned and drive north, out of the city, headed home. In six and a half very long hours and 399 miles, I’ll be there.

I plan to stop twice, every two hours. Not for enjoyment or interest, just the necessities: gas, lunch, bathroom. I swear I’ve been in every bathroom along the I-5. The traditional rest stops are always under construction and call me paranoid, but they look like places where bad things happen. The gas station bathrooms don’t have mirrors, as though if they did, you’d be tempted to linger. But there is one gas station about four hours north where the vibes are unusually high, and the bathrooms are a solid B. Starbucks and fast food restaurants have reliable facilities, regardless of the freeway exit. In Bakersfield, there’s a set of upgraded port-a-potties, but you need a code or a kind stranger to enter. There are also higher caliber situations at some stops, like in the mission-style hotel in Santa Nella or the bathroom with a painting of a lady and a cat in Kettleman City.

I’m sounding like my high school social studies teacher, who said he collected “seats.” Supposedly this meant when he visited historic sites, he’d try to sit where the president or king or soldier had sat, when the tour guides weren’t looking. I question what he really meant by this. But as I remember, his son was in my class, and he cringed during the retelling. A tacit affirmation that his dad was as quirky as he seemed.

Pedal to the metal, I blast my audiobook, podcast, or music as loud as my portable bluetooth speaker will go (in a 2007 Prius, we make technological adjustments.) I guzzle water and check all my mirrors again and drive well above the speed limit. “Ain’t about how fast I get there,” per Miley Cyrus, but actually in this case, yes it is. I drive as fast as I can, but people still pass me. 

There’s a metaphor in there. No matter how fast I go, how hard I try, there will always be people ahead of me, beating me, getting there first, laughing me out of the water. I think about a famous actress who cried to my friend at an industry party about never winning an Academy Award. She’s had an incredible career, she’s well-respected and well-loved. Iconic, you could reasonably say. But she wants a smooth golden man on her bookshelf; is that too much to ask? When I heard this story, I was perplexed. She has so much! She should be so proud! But I can see why she felt passed over and wanted more. There is always more.

Ambition is a value I admire and fear, in myself and others. I love a growth-oriented person, someone with goals and dreams and a plan to achieve them. Striving is beautiful, trying is brave. Seeking, too. But when you get “there” will you just want more, like a mouse who got a cookie? Of course you will, if you don’t change on the inside! “Aren’t you tired tryna fill that void?” Mais oui, Lady Gaga, mais oui.

Wherever you go, there you are, and right now I’m in the car, two hours north of LA. I’ve shed a couple tears, laughed a little, eaten some green grapes. My first and favorite stop rises before me: Buttonwillow. I visit loyally and often, five to ten times each year. I wish I had a punchcard. I started stopping in Buttonwillow years ago because the name is so cute. The place is not, but it has everything I need. It’s also, fun fact, the state’s “center of population.” The gem of unincorporated Buttonwillow is Tita’s Pupuseria Truck across from the Arco. If I remembered to call ahead 15 minutes, my bean and cheese pupusas are waiting for me, delicious as ever. Before I get back on the freeway, I text my parents and my fiancé to say I’m leaving Buttonwillow. They know what that means.

Buttonwillow. Not much to look at, but I can’t keep away.

My pilgrimage continues. My mind roams to what I’ve been writing, and I try to solve it. I think of something sort of good and repeat it over and over. I just can’t forget. I told my family and friends to call me today to help me pass the minutes and miles. Entertain me, hold me captive, I’m ready and willing. But I lose service in this stretch of California, this middle space with signs blaming Governor Newsom for the drought, for climate change, for poor crops and a disappointment they can’t quite name. On either side of the freeway are tall yellow grasses, evoking the grassland ecosystem I was named for. I was almost named Heather, can you imagine? I try the radio. The choices here are limited to country music, Christian sermons, or static. I turn it off.

Two hours north of Buttonwillow, four hours north of LA, I stop in Santa Nella at Pea Soup Andersen’s, with its brown and white windmill and feral cats in the parking lot. They live in and around the restaurant’s official green and white van. It looks inoperable, but what do I know? The restaurant feeds the cats. Not pea soup, just wet food, the cans scattered under the van. A couple years ago there were dozens of kittens roaming the lot, but now I’m lucky if I spot one skittish feline darting between hiding places.

For a long time, I was hesitant to go inside Pea Soup Andersen’s to use the bathroom. The Dutch decor right off the highway, the adjacent brown and white motel, the logo with cartoon characters named Hap-Pea and Pea-Wee… Something about it didn’t sit right. After searching for the cats, I’d go to a nearby parking lot and sneak into a fast food restaurant bathroom. But not anymore. I’ve read dozens of Yelp reviews and researched the restaurant’s history. They’ve been “splitting peas since 1924,” and they have many loyal fans. So I face my fears and go inside. The bathroom is fine, spacious, mirrored! Easy to access with no one guarding it. There are souvenirs for sale in the restaurant store. I buy a jar of plum butter.

Pea Soup Andersen’s. They love cats here.

I hurry back onto the road, eyes on the prize. The prize being home. I’m leaving no man’s land, the in-between, the upside down, a direct line between two points, the space between people I love. This isn’t the scenic route, no offense to people who live there. Everyone’s home is just a pitstop for someone else. For some, my hometown is merely a place to eat In-N-Out on the way to Tahoe. As I get to Sacramento, the radio becomes rich in channels again. Around here, people blame Newsom for texting them too often. (Speaking for myself… I did recently unsubscribe. He asks for money more often than my alma mater.) I hit rush hour traffic but the end is so close I can almost taste it.

I follow signs for Davis. I exit the 113 and drive past my friends’ parents’ houses, my elementary school, a wild turkey or two. I slow down, down, down after a day of going so fast, although never the fastest. The speed limit is 25 now. There are little kids on bikes. Every street is as I left it, and I pull onto mine and park in front of my parents’ house. I run inside.