Ocean Avenue

Had my induction at the university yesterday. The campus is truly beautiful. It is like a fairytale buried in amongst the redwood trees with colourful murals painted on the walls. The campus shuttle bus operates in a circle around the hill which it is built on - it took me one and a half complete circles to realise this. Characteristically, i arrived and discovered i was actually not enrolled in any classes, due to my lack of organisation. I went to the head of literature and she waved her magic wand. Her office was a jumble of comedy ornaments, fairy lights and motivational signs such as: 'take a deep breath and pretend you know what you're doing'. She offered me some carrot cake and told me i was incredibly lucky and it should never have worked out this well. Guardian angel, as my mother would say.

When darkness falls, the forest becomes rather Little Red Riding Hood and in order to avoid the Big Bad Wolf and the menacing neon lure of my motel, i stayed the night upon the floor of a new found friend. The only blankets we were able to find were a selection of hand me down bed sheets left by former students. I did think this was a little grim, until i warmed to the idea and found it quite poignant that these fleeting souls were unknowingly looking after me.


I woke early, for my body still believes it is eight hours earlier and walked down the hill and all the way through town back to my hotel, as the buses were infrequent. The sun stroked the back of my neck and filled my head with a golden glow. As i approached the bottom of the campus, the morning mist began to disappear from the horizon. An array of redwoods, palm trees and mountains reluctantly revealed themselves to me. Then i saw the ocean. A heaving, aching mass of water sparkling in the Californian sunshine, beckoning me. The sea makes me feel safe, for she signals escape. All of the water in this wide world connects. My younger brother told me to put my feet in the sea and he would do the same, and then we would be touching. Geography aside, he is essentially correct. I did it this afternoon, and thought of home. The streets of Santa Cruz are a jungle of telephone wires, loosely tangled in the palm trees as they are strung across the street. Everything is hazy and smells of summer. The taste of the sea makes my tastebuds tingle, the sharp scent of the wise old redwood trees mingling in the air. I passed a group of homeless men by the river, dancing around a tree in an intoxicated manner and lying in the grass, playing guitar. It was quite touching.

I saw a real -life seven eleven.

I haven't yet sorted my communication resources properly, and returned to my motel to discover a full scale police search was in motion via England and my mother was lighting candles for my safety. I love you, Julie!
This afternoon i explored the boardwalk, which deserves an entry of its own. It has all the broken glamour of an abandoned seaside attraction, yet it is in full working order and houses swarms of screaming children and the metallic roar of dodgem cars. I walked across the beach and watched the surfers and the yachts upon the water and felt content.

I headed downtown to use the internet and continue my house search, but got lost in a residential area first. Most people have a front porch bursting with foliage, trinkets and wind chimes hanging from the rafters, shells jangling in the wind. Some paint their 'mail boxes' with beautiful patterns. I trudged along the 'sidewalk' and passed an elderly man polishing his vintage yellow Cadillac, The Beach Boys blasting from his garage, the air saturated with the sickly sweet smell of marijuana.

I sat in a cafe in Downtown Santa Cruz and let the warm breeze caress my bare arms in the sunshine, as various bands and buskers played up and down the street. There is a real town player, straight from 'Gilmore Girls', playing for love rather than money. I explored the avenue of vintage shops which are miles apart from their English counterparts. The Salvation Army thrift store is like a dream. A wonderful old free spirit selling fair trade clothing told me she liked my 'magical' cardigan in a dreamy, ethereal voice, and welcomed my 'beautiful' accent to America. A real life fairy in this fairytale place.

The red of the sunset and the blue of the sky tinged the palette with violet, as the trees which line the street suddenly became illuminated with a thousand tiny lights.
As i headed home, a man shouted from the steps of the county hall: 'LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL! IT IS WHAT YOU MAKE OF IT!' over and over again.


I can only agree.