Road to Nowhere

For the first time on our trip, we were faced with the prospect of a day of driving with nothing to break the monotony – no visits to pueblos or national parks, in fact nothing much at all. Our sole objective was to try and go from Ridgecrest to somewhere-close-to-San-Francisco, nothing more. A bit of a change, and a somewhat depressing one at that.

After a breakfast that’s seemed to have the staff at the Hampton Inn on the hop due to unexpected numbers of people staying (we ended up getting doled out with small cartons of frozen juice to keep us from running amok when the normal juice dispenser had long run out) we hit the road once again, driving south at first toward Mojave then swung west to Bakersfield, finally joining I-5 north for a distant San Francisco through steadily driving rain and uninspiring scenery.

Thankfully everything changed when we finally turned off I-5 to head to Gilroy, past the San Luis Reservoir State Recreational Area, where the bland, recurring scenery finally transmogrified into something straight out of Middle Earth, all luminous green hillocks, bodies of water glinting in sunlight shafting through heavy grey clouds, and small clusters of hobbits running merrily about, displaying absolutely no road sense whatsoever.

We passed through Gilroy, somewhat depressed that the drive to the town was better than the town itself. Nothing wrong with Gilroy, as such – it’s the quintessential California farming town, with quaint roadside fruit stalls with names like the Cheery Cherry, Glorious Grape and Murderous Melon, still mostly, sadly, yet to re-open from the winter break. Driving through fields awash in water – well, not literally though the fields, but on roads through the fields, we joined 101 north, mashed the foot to the floor (which, in the Ford Escape, achieves nothing whatsoever except a slight increase in engine noise and a drop in MPG, all for no perceptible forward momentum) and joined the throng of traffic heading toward San Jose.

Our plan was sketchy, at best, as it often seems to be, and could be summarized as “find accommodation somewhere”. For reasons unknown, this stretch of the USA was completely devoid of any signage advertising ‘gas, food, lodging’ at any exits we passed. With San Jose looming closer, and nothing spotted thus far, we opted (possibly in error) to join 280 north in the hopes an Interstate would yield better prospects.

It didn’t.

Eventually, strategy went out the window, we drove past the first of three exits to Redwood City, and decided to take the middle of three alternatives – “when in doubt, choose the second exit” has been our mantra for some time, though rarely, if ever, tested. Turns out it was yet another error of judgement.

Redwood City – at least, the part we passed through – seemed like a great place to raise a family, all large blocks, weatherboard houses and hilly, tree-lined streets where you can apparently still leave bikes in the front yard without fear of them being stolen. We descended hill after consecutive hill, hoping for something – without success - and eventually landed downtown, milling about aimlessly. After some period of driving back and forth, we stumbled upon the salubrious Pacific Euro Hotel, but I realized it wasn’t the place for a young family when I walked into a small lobby to encounter a dozing denizen in a wooden chair, and a counter behind seemingly bullet-proof glass.

We opted to press on.

Ultimately, success was close at hand. After a couple of hot laps of El Camino Real and Woodside we found the Pacific Inn (seemingly unrelated to the its more international namesake encountered earlier), made a quick pit-stop to Target to pick up yet more urgent toy purchases for the kids, then drove onto Denny’s for a thoroughly forgettable meal served by the forgettable Sonya, who forgot about our cutlery and a request for more water… so we forgot about her tip.

Tomorrow… San Francisco. It’ll be great to be back.