Whenever I drive home to Santa Cruz I'm in a rush. Shoulders tense, I weave around cars. I hit traffic at the Coliseum, and tap my foot anxiously. It's most likely hot, or I have the heater turned up too high, and I'm sweating. I flip through the radio channels and try not to fall asleep through San Jose. By the time I hit the Fish Hook and Highway 1, there is traffic again, and I'm invariably late. Maybe for that movie I was planning on seeing, maybe for my dentist appointment. I text, and want to yell at the cars going 50 through Aptos even after the traffic has let up.
But once I'm home, something changes me. All the carefully packed outfits I brought end up on the floor in favor a comfy pair of pants, a baggy shirt and a warm jacket. I borrow that beach skirt from my mom because even though I have one, I didn't think to bring it. I swear that someday I'll master packing, but I don't care enough because right now I'm headed to the ocean.
I usually stay in Santa Cruz longer than I plan. A three day weekend turns into a week. The short day trip ends in me staying overnight. I get a good meal for the first time in weeks, and drink too much.
By the time I'm headed back to the Bay Area, I'm the one cruising down the highway at 50 mph.
But once I'm home, something changes me. All the carefully packed outfits I brought end up on the floor in favor a comfy pair of pants, a baggy shirt and a warm jacket. I borrow that beach skirt from my mom because even though I have one, I didn't think to bring it. I swear that someday I'll master packing, but I don't care enough because right now I'm headed to the ocean.
I usually stay in Santa Cruz longer than I plan. A three day weekend turns into a week. The short day trip ends in me staying overnight. I get a good meal for the first time in weeks, and drink too much.
By the time I'm headed back to the Bay Area, I'm the one cruising down the highway at 50 mph.
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